Keep Calm
by QuirkyFlattery
Summary: What were Wally and Dick like before the events in Young Justice? Starting from the origins, these two go through numerous adventures such as discovering bird-themed nicknames beyond 'robin', patenting facial expressions, collecting snacks, and wearing sunglasses at night. The chapters switch between Wally and Dick's perspectives.
1. Introduction

Hello Readers,  
Just a warning before you start: this isn't your typical fanfiction. It's a collaborative work and it was never finished and never will be. The summer before freshman year of college in 2014, my future roommate, Maggie, and I wrote it back and forth. It was a perfect bonding experience for us to sit down and create something together that we both nerded out about.

Maggie and I sat down together recently and reminisced a bit, as we were moving on to other rooming situations. We talked about this fanfiction and mutually agreed we should post it.

Something you should know is that the chapters switch between Wally and Dick's perspectives. Chapter 1 is Wally, Chapter 2 is Dick, Chapter 3 is Wally, Chapter 4 is Dick, etc. So if you just want to read Wally, read the odd numbered chapters. If you just want to read Dick, read the even numbered chapters. However, I recommend reading both together, as then you get two different perspectives of the same events.

Another person I should credit is Emily, our editor. She was awesome about reading through our chapters and providing grammar corrections and other advice. Also, she drew fanart of our chapters and also crack chapters, which I'll add to the end.

I hope you all enjoy this in place of a Young Justice Season 3!

-Anna Lundin, author of the KF chapters

Check out my art at: annalundin dot com

Heyo, I'm Maggie. I wrote the chapters from Robin's perspective. It just dawned on me that I wrote most of this two years ago, and I'm super nostalgic for this thing. It was a blast to write and a wonderful way to bond with my college roommate and co-writer. That said, I'm going to be honest: this thing is not finished. It probably never will be. Once school started I got way too busy to write, and I'm still incredibly busy (hence why Anna is publishing this thing instead of me). Even though it was a wonderful experience, I feel like it has already accomplished what I set out to do (bring me closer to my roommate), and therefore there is next to zero chance of me working on finishing this thing. I might be convinced to do a little more work on it, a chapter here and there or something, if people really like it and want more, but I doubt it will ever officially be brought to a conclusion, and for that I apologize in advance.

Even in its incomplete state, I think it's still a good story about friendship and bonding and snarky comments, and if anyone enjoys reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it I'd like that very much. Any comments specific to me can either be directed to mousecarter42 dot tumblr dot com or fanfiction dot net/u/2648487/MouseMaster42, where you can read some of my older works as well.


	2. Kid Flash Origin

**Kid Flash**

Most kids would want a new bike or video game or something, but I just got a new chemistry set and I think it's the best gift ever. I sink down onto the ground, eagerly flip open the case, and dig through it, analyzing the contents.

"You really didn't have to," Mom says.

"Nah, it's okay," Uncle Barry replies. "I found it when Iris told me to sort through my boxes in the basement. I obviously have no use for it anymore and I know Wally has a thing for science."

Mom nudges me with her foot.

"Ow," I complain, looking up at her.

"Oh, yeah." I look over to Barry. He's a tall man, a few heads taller than my mom, with short blond hair and a youthful excitement. "Thanks! This is awesome!"

Barry leans over next to me, pointing to a pair of red goggles, "Always wear these, okay? They're for protection."

* * *

I find the book on the coffee table in the living room. Aunt Iris had turned on some cartoons for me, but I'm more interested in the book. I brush my hand over the top before opening it, discovering rows and rows of messy scrawl. As realization hits, I get a rush of adrenaline and flip through, settling deeper into the couch. I glance up every once in a while, but stay engrossed in the writing. When I'm done scrutinizing over entries and scientific notes, I come to my theory. Time to test it against Aunt Iris.

I walk into the pastel green kitchen, where Aunt Iris is busy putting away dinner. I shuffle towards her on the tile floor in my socks. She has her back to me as she puts the chicken in tupperware.

As casually as I can manage, I slip in the question, "Hey, Aunt Iris, is Uncle Barry the Flash?"

Her hands stop working midair, confirming my suspicions. Aunt Iris spins around to face me. "Wally, we're not going to talk about this."

I hear the front door open.

I smile at Aunt Iris.

She shakes her head and mouths 'no'.

I don't hesitate to run to my uncle.

"You're the Flash?!"

"What?" he says, feigning confusion.

I don't stop. "I could be your sidekick! Batman has one and you need one too!"

He grabs my shoulders. "Wally, you need to calm down. And where did you get that idea?"

"You really could use a sidekick! I swear I'll be helpful and you need me!"

Barry takes a deep breath and lets go of me. "I meant this idea that I'm the Flash."

"Oh." I say. "Aunt Iris told me. When I asked, she said we're not going to talk about it, so that means yes but she can't tell me. Can I please be your partner?"

"You're a brilliant kid, Wally, but no."

"What? Why?"

"Let me drive you home."

"Why can't you just run me home?"

"We're driving."

* * *

After Uncle Barry makes me swear not to go blabbing, he drops me off at home. I pass Mom in the hall, asking her where I can use the chemistry set.

"You can set it up in the garage, just be sure that you don't touch your father's tools," she calls as she goes into the den for her show. "And follow the safety instructions."

I decide to do half of that.

With one hand clutching the journal, I bring up the electrical generator from the basement and gather the rest on the tool bench.

I spent the next two days making trips to a drugstore, hardware store, and my school's chemical storage closet. Soon, I had everything Barry wrote in the journal that he suspects could have caused the reaction.

So Friday night, I get to work.

* * *

Murmuring is all I hear at first. Then I notice the weight of a blanket over my body and pillows underneath my head, propping me up. I finally open my eyes to a room I don't recognize bathed in orange sunlight. I'm wrapped in a blue blanket on a bed surrounded by screens that monitor me. Through the window on the door, I can see my mom and dad and the realization hits me: I messed up big time.

 _Overwhelming tempo increase_

 _Thinking's harder_

 _I try to sit up_

 _I'm fine_

 _I swear_

 _But everything aches_

 _I breathe faster_

 _Tearing_

 _The thumping_

 _against my chest_

 _quickens_

 _Everything hurts_

 _Why_

 _Make it stop_

I fall back down and focus on inhaling and exhaling, trying to slow everything down. I stare at the ceiling.

"Wally!" My mom smiles wearily, Dad following her in, his fists clenched.

Dad frowns, "That was really stupid, Wallace. You blew up the garage."

What can I say to that? 'Yeah I did and it was awesome'? I look back up to the ceiling.

"Well?" he pauses, obviously expecting a response.

"Sorry, Dad." I still can't look at him; I don't want to see the hate in his eyes.

"Are you? Because you used the gasoline and even I know that's flammable. Who knows what else you had in there. Are you an idiot?"

I want to say, 'No, you're the idiot,' but instead I say, "Sorry," so that he'll go. He leaves in a huff.

"The doctor said you wouldn't wake up for a couple more days, so this is great," Mom says, ignoring what just happened, sitting on my bed next to me. Seeing that I'm still confused, she adds, "It's only been a day, it's Saturday evening."

* * *

He comes to visit me Sunday morning. After the longest night of my thirteen-year-old life. I couldn't sleep because I had just spent the day before unconscious and all I could do was think.

The first thing Barry does is apologize to me.

"What for?" I ask. I should be the one apologizing. I stole from him and messed with things I shouldn't have.

"Well, I found remnants of my notes in your garage. I figure you were trying to recreate that experiment... but that was a freak of nature. It was a complete accident. What I wrote down were only guesses and I couldn't confirm any of it. You got hurt because I was being careless," Barry really looks sincere and that's what makes me feel the worst. I let the guy down.

* * *

After a week, I'm off and running. Down to the Police Station. The Forensics Lab. Where Uncle Barry works.

It's great; the air whisks past my ears, a consistent rushing noise. It's refreshing as it hits my face and caresses my hair like caring fingers. Looking straight ahead, I can see every obstacle and react with plenty of time to dodge. This is great; the blurs that go past me have no relevance. I'm great; I can just go and I can do anything.

The blurs must see me as a blur. I'm wearing my red t-shirt, so I must be a flash of red they catch a glimpse of before I disappear around the street corner. I'm not worried, they can't see my face, nothing can go wrong. I'm just the kid-sized flash of red they see for a split-second.

I can't tire. Nothing can stop me. I surprise myself with newfound agility and swiftness. Endless energy I didn't know I had sweeps through me into every step and I want to go faster faster faster. Oh, man, this is great.

I slow down to a leisurely pace as I get close to the station. It's like all the other buildings around, five-story brick buildings with cement arches over the doorway and windows. However, since it is the police department after all, the parking spaces in front are filled with cop cars. As soon as I get close, a cop car springs to life with sirens and lights. I jump in surprise, but continue through the old wooden doors.

It's busy. Everyone in here has someplace to be or something to do. There's a staircase to the left, but I continue straight to a desk with a secretary behind it.

"Hey, Gorgeous," I start, leaning against the counter but unable to keep my fingers from impatiently tapping as I greet the good-looking brunette. "I'm looking for my uncle, Barry Allen. If you could just tell me where to find him? It's kind of important."

"Awww, you're a cute kid," The secretary says. "You're just like him!"

Unable to tell if she's being sarcastic or not, I'm about to tell her that we're not actually blood related, but then she says, "He's probably in the Forensics Lab. Just go right at the top of the stairs and take the door on the left. If you can't find it, ask anyone."

"Um, sure, thanks," I say, having trouble paying attention or even remembering the really simple directions she gave me.

Making my way to the stairs, everything decelerates. I'm not moving any faster but everything's in slow-motion. It's all in my mind, which switched to overdrive.

 _That woman_

 _The sun is so yellow_

 _from the window_

 _light_

 _reflections off her hair_

 _The stairs_

 _tap tap_

 _my new sneakers_

 _right side railing_

 _hand slllllllliiiidddees_

 _up_

 _squeak squeak_

 _my new sneakers_

 _very clean floors_

 _what did she say?_

 _so long ago_

 _remember_

 _right right right at top_

 _Almost to the top_

 _these stairs are too long_

 _so shiny_

 _good janitors make polished stairs_

 _go right_

 _I turn right_

Then, thankfully, it stops. What should have been thirty seconds felt like five minutes. And this has been happening all day. It's noon, but still.

Luckily, I didn't forget much, because the plate next to the door on my left reads 'Forensics Lab'. As I walk in, a dark-haired man with an awesome mustache, wearing a vest and tie, immediately stops me. "Kid! You can't be in here." He goes to grab my shoulders, but I duck under his arm, scanning the room.

The rows and rows of lab tables remind me of the school science lab, except a lot messier. There are black office chairs at the end of every row with a desktop Apple computer. Not to mention all the manila folders, pens, beakers, test tubes, burners and random papers scattered across the tabletops. There's got to be a fire hazard in here somewhere. Then I see my uncle, who has a file open on his lap, sitting in an office space in the corner, but he looks up once I make my noisy entrance.

"It's okay, Director Singh, he's my nephew," Uncle Barry says, standing up and making his way over. "And I'll take my lunch break now," he adds, putting a hand on my shoulder and walking me out, continuing down the hall, and down the stairs.

As casually as I can manage, I slip in the question, "Do you ever have trouble staying… in the moment? To experience things at a normal pace?"

"What do you mean?" Barry asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Well… you know how I blew up the garage last week?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how I was trying to...um, you know, the experiment?"

Barry carefully nods.

"It worked."

He actually looks scared. Which isn't good; he's the Flash.

Since it is his lunch break, Barry takes me to a cafe across the street. As soon as I sit down, I begin tapping my foot; I can't help it. Looking out the window from our booth, I watch a cop car return and bring a guy inside the department.

"Listen, I can help you and I will," Barry says in all seriousness and in a calm, level tone. "But understand that you have a decision to make here. There are two paths. You mentioned earlier that you want to be my partner. I'll admit to thinking about it, but now it's a possibility. It would be a good way for you to get under control. However, I need you to think about how it will affect every aspect of your life. You'll have a secret that you'll constantly need to hide. Your actions will mean something because people will be watching. If you're going to be my partner, whatever you do will come back to me. I don't know if I want to be responsible for you.

"The other path is the easy one. There's no commitment, but you'll still need to be under control and keep it a secret."

Without any doubt, I enthusiastically reply, "I can be your partner! I swear you won't regret it.

I could tell that Barry is really struggling with this whole idea, but I've never been more confident.

"You have to do exactly what I say, when I say it," he warns.

"Yes," I nod. Thinking back to earlier when I was that kid-sized flash of red, I add, "I could be Kid Flash."


	3. Robin Origin

**Dick Grayson**

 _It is raining. It's always raining here; pouring down and soaking through the nicest suit I've ever owned. I should be cold, but I find that I can't feel a thing. I've been swallowed up, completely fixated on the dark holes in the mud filling with rain water, freshly shoveled dirt drowning my grief and burying whatever's left. You can't see the caskets at the bottom of the graves-they're so deep-and it's like watching them fall all over again. But my parent are in coffins, not costumes, and I can't see them land._

 _The memory replays like a scratched disc on a shaky camera, skipping and freezing on the moment before they leapt from the balcony, stopping and stuttering, trying to catch up with itself and blurring past full moments. I can see the loosened bolts and I know they won't hold._

 _But I can't say anything anymore. No matter how many times, I stand and watch. Nothing changes._

 _They always fall._

* * *

I slam into a chair, gasping like I'd fallen off the rings myself. A blanket slips from my shoulders onto the floor, and the sudden cold is enough to wake me up the rest of the way.

There's an awful moment of panicked disorientation-I can't place where I am at all. It's just dark. For the first time since the adoption, I miss Wayne's soft beds and clean sheets.

I sit up, wincing at the crick in my neck, and wonder if he's noticed that I snuck out yet. I didn't realize how late it had got, and I still don't know where I am. An alley somewhere, maybe? An alley with a high ceiling and...bats?

"You should have taken him upstairs," someone whispers behind me, voice crisp and familiarly accented. "This is not the place for a child."

"He will find out eventually, if he's going to live here. I'd rather he heard it from me," someone else says. American. Deep.

I curl my knees up to my chest when I place it. That was Wayne. That was definitely Wayne.

"Mr. Wayne?" I'm kneeling and peeking over the back of the chair, looking incredulously at Wayne standing awash in the radiating light from a giant computer screen.

It's definitely him.

Which makes the costume even harder to compute.

"I...I don't..." I stammer, feeling suddenly as if I've trespassed on something I shouldn't have. "Are you...?"

"Batman, the Caped Crusader?" Alfred-the second voice-drawls behind him.

"But I _just_ saw him," I blurt, and then admit in a rush, "I snuck out. Through the vines by my window."

"Master Bruce sneaks out as well, through even less conventional exits," Alfred sighs, paternal patience and sarcasm mixing into a gentle admonishment that lightens the mood, somehow.

Wayne rolls his eyes. Seeing him now, I can see how his and Batman's body types line up, but I still have the sense that I'm missing something vital. The answer can't be that easy. Bruce Wayne can't just happen to be Batman. I wrack my brain, trying to remember if they'd ever been reported in the same room at the same time.

"I was out on patrol," Wayne says gruffly. "I knew you were following me."

"I know you're following Zucco," I say, easing out of the seat to stand in front of him, puffing my chest out as much as I can before saying firmly, "I want to help."

Silence.

"Just like that?" Wayne asks disbelievingly.

"I want to help," I repeat, trying to keep eye contact.

Wayne looks from me to Alfred, and then back to me.

"You'll need something better to wear."

* * *

The next few weeks pass very quickly. I struggle with being nocturnal and subsequently learn to like espresso. I begin practicing acrobatics again. I spend just about every waking moment in the Batcave researching, sometimes with Wayne, sometimes without. Alfred beats me in chess about seventy times in his downtime. I'm wonderfully distracted by the whole thing and have entire hours where I forget that my parents are dead, and rare, rare seconds where I almost feel okay again.

Somewhere in between the thirtieth game of chess and our first real lead on the Zucco case 'Wayne' becomes 'Bruce.' I can pinpoint the moment it happened exactly.

We had both been in the Batcave, him still dressed from his patrol, hair a damp mess from being crammed underneath the cowl. I was lamenting over the lack of leads, and Wayne had turned to me and said, very seriously, "There's a chance we might not find him. I want you to be prepared for that."

I hadn't really thought about it. Of course we would find him.

I said so: "We'll find him. You're _Batman_."

"And I never found the man who killed my parents," Wayne said. I looked at him over the console, and I could just _see_ it, that spike of hurt and revenge just beneath the surface that hadn't melted in the twenty odd years since the shooting. I saw all that-his drive and his obsession and his rage-for less than a second before his expression calmed.

I understood, then, why he was letting me help. Gotham didn't need another Batman in the making. He was trying to save me.

He became Bruce in that moment. It was the first time I knew for sure that he actually cared.

I think I was a little ambitious after that. It was a combination of jitters and a need to impress this new version of Bruce I had discovered. Mostly I just went a little stir-crazy.

Which was why I now find myself standing in an alley, keeping a lookout while Bruce-decked out in Batman gear-investigates some of Zucco's associates.

I say "investigate," I mean he's beating them up. I can hear the crashes and bangs from where I'm standing by the Batmobile, feeling pretty silly in my dark jeans and sweatshirt when there's a caped behemoth literally a block away.

I scuff the sidewalk angrily with my shoe. I had bugged Bruce and Alfred for days to let me go out on this patrol, and now that I'm out I realize how unhelpful I actually am like this.

Batman vaults over the porch railings above me, landing almost silently on the asphalt.

"Anything?" he growls at me.

"Nothing," I confirm, sliding into the passenger seat. The engine revs, and I'm suddenly slammed against the headrest as we accelerate out of the alley.

"What did you get?"

"He knows where Zucco is," Batman says bluntly. He doesn't offer anything else.

So much for progress. I try not to slide down in my seat too much when I say softly, "You know, when I said I wanted to help, I actually wanted to _help_."

"You are helping," Bruce says, his voice flat and utterly devoid of the encouragement I had been hoping for.

"I meant I want to be there with you."

He glances away from the road for a minute, and even though I can't see his eyes I feel instantly mollified as he points out, "I was hit with three bullets while I was in there." He grabs a handful of my sweater. "How many bullets do you think this can withstand?"

I know my "yeah but..." sounded a bit petulant. I just didn't want to be standing on the sidelines. I cast around for something that would convince him to take me with him-properly, not just guard duty.

I have a vague idea by the time we get back to the cave.

* * *

I was worried Bruce and Alfred would laugh at me, but this silence is almost worse.

"Too colorful?" I say hesitantly, spreading my arms and letting the yellow cape flutter behind me.

"Of course not," Alfred says, in the same instant that Bruce rubs a hand across his jaw and says "Maybe."

"It's armored," I say, gesturing at the Kevlar plates I sewed on the inside. I copied the design of Bruce's suit mostly. My mom had taught me how to sew.

"Flexible?" Bruce inquires, instantly all-business as he paces around me.

"Of course." I swing one leg through the air and make arm-circles to demonstrate.

Bruce nods. I think it's a good sign. I look over at Alfred hopefully; his expression is one part concern and two parts resignation. Also kind of a good sign, I think.

"We'll give you a trial run tonight. But I want you behind me at all times, and at any given moment if I tell you to leave you will, as well as obey all of my other commands," Bruce says, and I concentrate on keeping my feet firmly planted on the ground before I can jump in excitement.

"You'll need this." He presses something into my hands before pulling his hood up, and I uncurl my fingers to see a black mask.

"Are you coming?" Bruce-Batman-shouts, already in the Batmobile.

"Exercise caution," Alfred offers, and I have just enough time to nod before sprinting off.

* * *

"I'm sorry," Bruce says, three weeks later.

"Nah." I shrug nonchalantly, picking at my hot dog and eyeing the greyish protein shake that Alfred wants me to drink. "I mean, we incriminated him, he just died before we got there. He would've been arrested otherwise."

We're sitting in the Batcave. Alfred thought junk food would be the best way to soften the blow of my parents' murderer slipping away to the afterlife without being justly incarcerated.

He was probably right. It still kind of sucked. Who knew the man had a weak heart condition?

"You performed well," Bruce says, making a 'deceased' note on Zucco's file on the main computer and taking a bite out of his hamburger.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"So now what?" I ask.

Bruce looks at me, faking confusion. "What do you mean?"

I know him too well by now-nothing catches him off guard. "What about you and me? And this?" I tug at the collar of my jumpsuit. "I start school next week. What happens?"

"I suppose you'll just have to catch up on sleep on the weekends."

I blink. "What?"

Bruce gives me a smug look, no-doubt reading my body language before turning back to the computer. "I should warn you, I won't hesitate to bench you if your grades start to slip. The Wayne family has high expectations."

"You mean...I can keep doing this?"

"You already know my secret. And you're helpful," Bruce closes out of his database so it's just the blue desktop of the computer washing over his face as he spins to face me, steepling his gloved fingers over his mouth. "You'll need a name though."

"I've got just the thing," I say, fingers skimming over the embroidered 'R' on my chest.


	4. Do Robins Even Have Ears?

**Wally West**

A hand firmly grabs my shoulder, separating me from the crowd of students leaving the room. "I know you stole from the chemical storage, Wally."

Oh, crud. I'm hit with a stab of guilt and I turn to face my advanced chemistry and advanced physics teacher, "And my question is, what would you be doing with hydrazine, manganese, and acetone?"

I let out a nervous laugh and respond, "Well, Mr. Shoger… Yeah, I got nothing."

Mr. Shoger sighs, "I let you help me out as a teacher's assistant because you're too far ahead in the curriculum. I trusted you to get the chemicals I need for the class and you're repaying me by taking some for yourself? What we have is expensive, I hope you realize."

Mr. Shoger's one of my favorite teachers ever because he's got a sense of humor, but also gives you exactly the information you need for his tests. I feel terrible to have disappointed him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Shoger. I wanted to try some of Bill Nye's experiments at home even though he specifically said not to. It won't happen again, I swear."

He sighs again, glancing to the side, "Fine, I'm not going to inform the school board, but I'm not going to let you help me prep for classes anymore."

My heart sinks. "I deserve that," I tell him.

I'm trying not to show it, but I'm totally crushed. Now what am I supposed to do in physics and chem?

"Can I go home now?"

He nods and as I collect my jacket from my locker, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket: a text. 'IM HERE 2 PIC U ↑. MEET IN BACK'

Yes! The only time Barry picks me up from school is when he needs me for something awesome!

* * *

It's been six months since my first day as Kid Flash. What have I learned in six months? Well, being super fast means you're going to super eat a lot. When someone tells you to duck, they don't mean the animal. The best place in Central City to get good food fast is the fridge. It's best to just tell your parents about your newly acquired ADHD. Girls typically won't take twenty bucks in exchange to go on a date with you (unless it's upped to a small fortune, everyone has a price). Blowing up a garage results in a ton of cleaning. Being faster than everyone else doesn't mean you're invincible. Anything can taste good if you're hungry enough. And…

Beating up bad guys is awesome!

* * *

Normal people probably go on a jog for maybe a few miles, but I just ran from Central City, Missouri to Gotham City, New Jersey, which is about 1,000 miles, in just a little over an hour. And I enjoyed every single minute of it with my newish red goggles, earpieces, and the yellow and red spandex uniform. Better than running in jeans and a t-shirt.

If Central City is the city that never slows down, I'd say Gotham is the city with a bat problem.

On the way in, I couldn't help notice that it's all very depressing. Like some goth kid built his own city based off his nightmare and then other people attempted to fix it with new skyscrapers. The sun never shines; it's always overcast. So expecting a day that's dark, dingy, and cold in Gotham is a safe guess.

"Batman should get to cleaning up this city when he takes a break from sulking," Flash tells me through the earpiece with laughter in his voice. At this speed, any noise we make just gets lost in the wind, so coms are a must-have. At the edge of the city, he stops instantaneously at a small diner at the mouth of an alleyway. I try to skid too late and almost hit the brick wall of the alley. Still working on the stops.

The '70's diner looks like it arrived in a time machine just earlier today. Brand-new with shiny chrome and the entire light spectrum in neon.

"Just a sec, Kid," Flash insists. "Wait here, I'll buy food."

I slid down against the wall I almost face-planted into. Then he's back with a tray of burgers.

"You didn't get any for yourself?" I smile.

"Ha ha," Flash sarcastically replies.

* * *

An engine roars and we're suddenly bathed in headlights. A long low rider pulls into the alley. I'm ready to run, but Flash doesn't even twitch.

After a split-second, it occurs me that this is the famous matte black Batmobile sporting a covered seating compartment and gold rims on the tires, and even some bat wings off the back wheels. It's probably overkill, but Bats has his style and he overkills on a lot of things.

The covering pulls back mechanically and out step two shadows. One, tall and imposing; the other, a skinny young kid. The duo comes into the light of the streetlamps and the diner. This being the first time I've come face to face with the Batman, I'm a bit overwhelmed. His face is covered with a black cowl with little bat ears that would have been cute if not for the hard, stern line that is his mouth. Everything else, including his cape, is very black, scary, and manly.

The black-haired kid beside him has a permanent little smirk on his face as well as a black mask. His athletic-looking costume includes a red t-shirt shaped top with a letter 'R', stopping at his yellow utility belt matching his mentor's, and everything below is black down to his shoes and gloves. With the exception of his yellow cape. I want a cape.

"This is Robin," Batman says in his deep voice. Sure I've heard of Robin, but I wasn't expecting him to be a ten-year-old kid.

"Isn't that a girl's name?" I grin, directly to his face. I can almost feel Flash frowning at the back of my head, but I ignore him.

The little boy puts a hand on his hip and says, "It's a bird." I instantly get a mental image of a fluffy ball of feathers with big eyes and a tiny beak.

"Kind of a tiny, not-scary bird though," I counter, shrugging.

"Oh, like your name's original," he snorts and I can just tell he's rolling his eyes at me under that mask.

"Dude, it works!" I moan, throwing my hands up in frustration. I guess I was asking for it, but really?

Then Bats clears his throat in a way that could quiet even the school's cafeteria before stating the question, "What are you doing in Gotham?"

"We're following a lead from the S.T.A.R. Labs in Central City," Flash responds, taking a couple steps forward. "According to the lab's official records, we have reason to believe that a problematic weapon is in production here. "

"Wait, S.T.A.R. Labs?" Robin asks, perking up.

"Do Robins have hearing problems?" I ask, stepping to his side to analyze the side of his head. "Do they even have ears?"

He completely ignores me, proving my point, and addresses Bats, "Wasn't that the lab we busted last week?" Robin raises an eyebrow.

"We did infiltrate a S.T.A.R. lab last week," Bats announces as a fact. "But there weren't any weapons."

"Excuse me?" I say, hardly believing we ran up here for nothing.

"Are you sure?" Flash affirms.

Bats continues, "It's just a satellite lab. They were conducting research on seismic activities-"

"But that's what the weapon does!" I burst.

Robin looks at me like I broke a sacred law: never cut off the Batman. Glaring, he tells me, "It's rude to interrupt."

"But he's right," Flash saves me from the wrath of the Robin. "The blueprints we found were on the generating artificial earthquakes. In cities that aren't constructed for that sort of thing, it could do a lot of damage."

I imitate Robin's eyebrow raise to his smug little face, "Cities like Gotham."

Bats heartlessly states another fact, "We're aware of Gotham's structural failures, but the weapon design is inherently flawed. The concussion waves it relies on will be unable to penetrate the granite that the city is built on."

Flash comments,"They were just getting into prototypes."

So I vigorously say, "Prototypes that we should get rid of!"

Robin's jaw drops.

However, then Bats agrees with me.

Then Robin directs his shocked face at Bats, who continues, "I already have a plan in place. Tonight we're planning to infiltrate their head of operations warehouse and laboratory."

"Whoa, hey," Flash says. "You can't just rush into this-"

"There's something I thought I'd never hear," Robin sneers. So many speed jokes, so little time.

After Bats gives Robin a look, he adds, "You said yourself that time is of the essence."

Flash nods, "Yes, but, if we're going to pool our resources, we need time to coordinate."

Robin stands aghast, "Who said anything about pooling resources?"

"Yeah, maybe you should reconsider?" I advise. I don't really want to have to work with this smug ten-year-old.

Bats quiets us with, "The warehouse is on the corner of 37 and Union. Meet us there in an hour." Bats departs with a swish of his cape and retreats to the mobile of bats. Robin, less than enthusiastic, follows.

"What was…?" I ask Flash in disbelief.

"He's always like that."

* * *

"Kid, play nice with the other superheroes." Flash demands over the com as we near the location of the S.T.A.R. Labs warehouse.

"Hm?"

"Typically, you want to stay on their good side and not insult their name."

"Point taken," I admit.

"Now, Batman and Robin should already be there. And in about 6.5 seconds we're going to take out the guards at the entrance on my mark. Left and right, okay?"

"Got it."

"Now."

Going left, I spin off the wall of the warehouse, delivering a sharp, momentum-filled kick to the guard's shin. As he drops his gun and doubles over, I hold his shoulders and bring his face down to my knee.

Flash's grinning next to me, standing over his unconscious guard and gun parts. He quickly dissembles my guard's gun, which mostly just falls apart in his hands. "Good job, Kid."

"That was sweet!" I raise my hand for a high five. Flash rolls his eyes before returning it.

"Seriously?" I hear from behind me. Whirling around, Robin, the speaker, looks a little disappointed. But oh, what's that I see even though he's trying so hard to hide it: amazement. Bats sweeps out from the shadows, kneeling by the door's lock box. Pulling out a device with rotating numbers and symbols on the screen, he hacks the security system, the door opens with a hiss.

The building is pretty much just one dimly-lit, vast room with towering shelves of boxes and supplies separating the place into corridors. I'm thinking that this can be kind of cool until we get inside and they're gone.

"I hate it when he does that," Flash whispers. "Oh well, we know where we're going. Up and to the right, then duck for cover. Take out any guards in the way and don't be afraid to get me for help."

"Blah blah blah." He always has me do this when we're doing anything stealthy-like. Scout ahead, because I have the goggles with the thermal imaging capabilities, then he follows. I speed straight and to the right, ducking behind some boxes.

"Okay, we're good," I announce softly into the com.

Hearing a quiet whoosh next to me, Flash appears, mouthing 'over there' and pointing up with his thumb. Taking a quick peek, I catch a glimpse of what he's talking about. A guard, apparently on rounds, is on his way toward us.

"Go 'head," Flash allows.

Without delay, I hurtle around the corner, planning to slide into him, when I unexpectedly get struck by something from behind. Getting the breath knocked out of me, I land on my front, sliding a bit from the propulsion. The surprised guard had dropped his gun and now he's scrambling to talk into his radio and retrieve his firearm. A red flicker swipes the gun just before a black shadow lands an uppercut, the guard effortlessly falling to the ground. I lift my head and push Robin off my back.

"Ah, great. Nice job, birdbrain," I gasp for the air I lost. Robin stands up rigid, obviously uncomfortable. If only the guy wasn't such a klutz, I could've taken out that guard by myself.

Not a minute after that, an electronic-sounding beeping starts at two second intervals. Bats leads the group forward, to a door that's not like the others. He kneels down to unlock it.

"Keep watch," Bats growls.

"I'm coming," Flash insists, darting through the door Bats just opened.

Standing and watching are two of my least favorite activities, but I comply. I listen to the alarm and start humming quietly along in time with the beeping. Then the little twerp, who's leaning against the wall, arms folded, thinks it's okay to start talking to me.

"Guard duty," He protests. "We've been assigned. Guard. Duty."

"Yeah? So?" I say, already sick of just standing there. It occurs to me that Rob must be assigned guard duty a lot, working with the Batman.

"I should be in there," Robin grumbles. Maybe he was hoping this time would be different.

"I'm kinda hungry," I admit, saying the first thing I think of, acknowledging the gnawing in my stomach.

I can tell he's kind of not interested. "...You're hungry."

"Yeah. High metabolism and all that." And then my mind switches into high gear; that often happens when I think of food.

 _beep_

 _Where can I get food?_

 _Burgers, ketchup, hot dogs_

 _Diner, too far_

 _Mmm, chicken, or beef steak_

 _Cafeteria_

 _no_

 _Fridge_

 _apple pie, pumpkin pie_

 _Staff room, break room_

 _maybe down the hall_

 _machines, potato chips, chocolate bars_

 _freeze-dried Chicken Whizees_

 _can you get pizza from a vending machine?_

 _too much noise_

 _beeeeeeep_

 _quick get the..._

"Right," Robin gives me a quizzical look.

"Don't look at me like that," I tell him.

My mind slows with a possible solution, "I wonder if this place has vending machines…"

"We can't leave!" The not-hungry boy frets.

"Just for a second," I whine, knowing he wouldn't be able to stop me even if he disagreed. "You won't even know I'm gone."

"You're really that fast?"

"Sure! Watch me go," I shoot around the corner before what Flash said earlier about being nice occurs to me. So, I fwoosh back, "Hey, do you want anything?"

"No," Robin objects, still not moved and still leaning against the wall.

"Your loss," I shrug.

Zipping back around the corner, then down a hall, I finally spot the colorful arrangement of delicious bags of sweet and salty treats in a large metal box through an open door. It's a sort of conference room, thankfully empty. Vibrating against the glass on the machine until it breaks, I take a couple bags of chips and candy bars. I hear gunshots and shouting. A few guards jog past the conference room.

They could only be going for Robin. I barrel down the hall, arms full, ramming the guards aside. Down the hall and around the corner. There's me, about eight guards, and then Robin.

I stash my goodies in the corner before I call out, "Wait, wait, wait. Hold still while I get a head count! One." I land a force-filled punch on the guard's head nearest to me.

"Two." I slide, swishing my legs, tripping up another.

The room suddenly fills with a dark hazy gas, making it impossible to see, but I manage to remember where the other guards were last standing.

"Three, four, five, six, I can take that, seven, thank you, eight, yoink!" I announce as I disarm the rest of them, stopping against the wall. It's hazardous to run when you can't see.

I hear Robin's laugh, a guard groan, something sharp slicing through the air, grunts, and heads hitting the concrete.

As the gas clears, Robin reappears, breathing heavily, but unfazed, clearly just warmed up. I see why Bats likes this guy; he has a remarkable drive.

The shouting of more guards becomes more distinct. Expecting them to show any moment, I quip, "Ready, songbird?"

"Ready, roadrunner," Robin returns.

As soon as one comes into view, I speed forward. As the guard goes to kick me, I snatch his leg and the other, and use his weight to create centripetal force, spinning him in a circle, then throwing him at other advancing guards. All three crumble to the ground. I turn around just in time to see the last few walk right into Robin's taser.

I detect two new figures out of the corner of my eye, Batman and Flash had finished and were now standing in the door, waiting for us. Flash looks especially impatient. Oh, right, we were supposed to be stealthy.

I give them my 'everything-is-totally-under-control' grin. It's patented.

"We need to go. Now," Bats demands.

I didn't forget about my snacks, I gather them in my arms.

"Time to make our exit," Flash tells me. "This wall leads outside."

Instantly knowing what he's trying to say, I'm filled with dread. I hate doing this, but I guess it is most efficient. I tense my muscles, starting to shake and attempt to phase my hand through. Seeing that I'm having a difficult time, Flash grabs my shoulders, his vibrations carrying over to me, reverberating faster than I could ever hope to then pushing me through the wall ahead of him. He knows I have trouble with this.

Having your molecules scattered is a lot less fun than it sounds. As the cool night air hits my face and I step into the damp grass, I'm relieved to feel solid. Finally letting go of my shoulders, Flash starts off down the street with me in pursuit.

As the crisp wind hits my face, my breathing starts to sting in my nose. I bring up my gloved hand and take it away with sticky liquid on it. That's when I notice the blood.

"Oh, crud," I say into the com. "I'm bleeding again."

"Pinch the bridge of your nose and we'll stop at the next rest stop."

It's only then that I actually notice Flash's carrying a bag. He notes me eyeing it, answering my unspoken question with, "We took some of the prototypes and notes on the project to delay it for a least a couple more years."

"Can I keep any of that?"

"Um, sure," Flash understands, taking out a disassembled part that looks like a small generator and handing it off to me. "Go for it."

"Souvenir!" I cry, still holding my nose.


	5. Faster Than Usain Bolt

**Dick Grayson**

There's a routine on days like today. I pull back into the Batcave with Bruce around one. It's an early night for us-I told him I had a test in the morning and I think us ignoring that last dealer on the corner of 9th and Broadway was his way of telling me that I'd be in trouble if I failed.

I tried, I really did. I took a shower and brushed my teeth and everything by two, but I didn't fall asleep until four, right about when I normally would have gotten in.

Bruce doesn't pull me out of school until _after_ the test, of course. By this point the attendance teachers have just given up on me. I'm a chronic truant, they say, but ever since Bruce donated a new computer lab they've been much more lax about me making up new excuses. I get away with reusing the sick relative story for the third time in as many months, and actually get a sarcastic wave from the receptionist on my way out.

The Bentley is idling in the school drive, and I swing into the back. "What's up?"

"How was your test?" Bruce asks. He just came from work, judging by the crisp suit and impeccably-parted hair.

"Hi Alfred," I drawl by way of diversion. "Where are we going?"

"Back to the mansion, Master Dick."

"The test?" Bruce insists.

"Ninety-eight percent," I say dismissively, propping my chin on my hand and looking out the window. Tall skyscrapers flank both sides of the car, decreasing steadily in their height until we're out of the downtown area. Obeying the legal speed limits, the Wayne mansion was about a fifteen minute drive out of town. Bruce's all-time best is three minutes flat, but that was years ago when he was still able to impress me.

We're past that now. I'm just as comfortable swinging down the fireman's pole behind the grandfather clock as he is. I'm suited up a respectable point-four seconds after him, and we swing into the Batmobile in unison just as Alfred comes down with a pot of tea.

"Shall I keep the kettle on for you, Master Bruce?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow even as he's turning around to go back up the elevator, tea tray in hand.

"A late dinner," Bruce instructs, and guns the engine. It's muted inside the car's exterior, but I know that outside it's roaring not unlike a small jet. We're practically flying through the exit ramp, and it's not long before we're back in the city again, cruising along at a more reasonable speed and beginning our patrol.

I suspect that most of it is time-killing, as we don't actually leave the car until after the streetlights have flickered on and something beeps on the dashboard computer.

"What do you know about the Flash and his partner?" Batman prefaces, taking a sharp turn into an alley. The Batmobile barely fits, but Bruce doesn't so much as tap either of the fins against the wall.

I blink. This wasn't what I was expecting. "Based in Central City and known as the Crimson Comet, the Flash has super speed, superhuman reflexes, and violates several laws of physics. His sidekick is imaginatively named Kid Flash and has the same abilities," I recite. "Why?"

"You're about to meet them. Be nice."

The tires crunch on gravel, and I peer out of the tinted windshield to see two flamboyantly dressed men regarding the Batmobile with what I assume to be awe. It's an impressive-looking car.

"Plan of attack?" I ask.

"Follow my lead," Batman says, and steps out into the night.

I'm familiar with his tactics and know that he specifically parked in a spot layered in shadows. In this light, the two Speedsters seem even more saturated than they probably are. Their outfits coordinate down to the lightning bolt insignia on their chests, and they're both closer to my own build than Bruce's; slim, lean muscle instead of Bruce's solid mass. The younger one is eyeing me up, and I can't help but broaden my shoulders a bit, aware of how small I seem in Bruce's shadow.

The younger Flash is wearing a jumpsuit that's bright yellow down to his waist and glows like a target in the night. His pants are red, and everything from the lack of armor anywhere on his person to the goggles covering his eyes look like it was designed for speed. A tuft of red hair pokes out from the top of his mask, framed by two little lightning bolt antennas. These guys have a thing for lightning.

Although, standing next to a guy dressed like a bat, I guess I can't throw stones.

"This is Robin," Batman says over my shoulder.

The younger guy turns to me, eyes gleaming, his mouth twisting up into a smirk as he says, "Isn't that a girl's name?"

 _It's unisex_ , I want to sigh, but I don't. It's beside the point, and I've had this argument more than once with various villains. I can have it again with this guy. "It's a bird."

Kid Flash rocks back on his heels, expression not dropping at all. "Kind of a tiny, not-scary bird though."

I know I'm getting riled up for sentimental, irrational reasons, but the snark slips out a bit too much when I fire back "Oh, like your name's original."

"Dude, it works!" Kid Flash blurts, throwing his hands up in the air, and I realize that-like me-he's probably had this argument more than once.

"What are you doing in Gotham?" Batman asks crisply.

The Flash gives his sidekick a stern 'behave' sort of look, and I glance a little guiltily to the side as he says brusquely to Batman, "We're following a lead from the S.T.A.R. labs in Central City."

I look up.

"According to the lab's official records, we have reason to believe that a problematic weapon is in production here," Flash continues.

"Wait, S.T.A.R. labs?" I confirm.

"Do Robins have hearing problems?" Kid Flash sniggers, taking a step to the side to grin at me. "Do they even have ears?"

I decide not to dignify the grade school insult with a response and instead say smugly to Batman, "Wasn't that the lab we busted last week?"

"We did infiltrate a S.T.A.R. lab last week," Batman nods. Bingo. Check and mate, Roadrunner.

"But there weren't any weapons."

"Excuse me?" Kid Flash yelps before I have time to blurt it myself. I guess he is fast.

"Are you sure?" The Flash asks grimly.

"It's just a satellite lab. They were conducting research on seismic activities-"

"But that's what the weapon does!" Kid Flash shouts.

I swivel to face him, saying coolly, "It's rude to interrupt."

"But he's right," The Flash says reasonably, looking appealingly to Batman. "The blueprints we found were on creating an artificial earthquake." His expression is dead serious as he explains, "In cities that aren't constructed for that sort of thing, it could do a lot of damage."

"Cities like Gotham," Kid Flash says to me, his expression far too smug for someone discussing destruction. Wayne mansion is built on a shock pad anyway.

"We're aware of Gotham's structural failures," Batman says uncharitably. "But the weapon design is inherently flawed."

I remember this now. We had gone over these last week after sacking the lab, and had concluded that the device was probably about six years from being functional. Something about what the city was built on.

"They were just getting into prototypes," The Flash says.

"Prototypes that we should get rid of!" Kid Flash shouts, enthusiasm practically making him vibrate.

I'm about to tell them that the machine is still six years off when Batman says, "I agree."

It's only for the sake of our company that I don't whirl around to disagree with him, and I keep a respectful silence as he continues, "I already have a plan in place. Tonight we're planning to infiltrate their head of operations warehouse and laboratory."

So that's what this is about.

Flash, apparently, is no more in the loop than I am, because he makes a 'hold up' motion with his hand and protests, "Whoa, hey, you can't just rush into this."

"There's something I thought I'd never hear," I quip. Batman glares at me, and I mentally rein it in. Probably not the time.

"You said yourself that time is of the essence," Batman points out.

"Yes, but," Flash scrambles, "If we're going to pool our resources, we need time to coordinate."

I'm really starting to be annoyed that Bruce hasn't told me about any of this. "Who said anything about coordinating resources?"

"Yeah, maybe you should reconsider," Kid Flash advises, looking my way nervously.

But, as usual, Bruce will not be dissuaded. "There's a warehouse on the corner of 37 and Union," he says firmly. "Meet us there in an hour." He spins on his heel, and I sort of sulk after him into the Batmobile.

He waits until we're out of the alley before turning to me and noting blandly, "You're upset."

"You didn't tell me any of this," I huff, trying not to sound too miffed.

"You had a test," Bruce says matter-of-factly. "I didn't want to distract you."

I turn to stare at him and fight not to roll my eyes. "Are you _serious_?"

* * *

We beat the speedsters to the warehouse and pull up behind a screen of ivy. Batman pulls up a 3D rendering of the building's interior and points out the low-hanging beams to watch out for. "I personally advise non-lethal maneuvers," he says, minimizing the display. "We're going for stealth here, not intimidation."

I pat my pouch containing flash bombs and tear gas and nod. "Non-lethal. Sneaky. Got it."

"Also," he snaps just as I'm about to pop the door and run for it. "Keep your head level. Especially with Kid Flash."

"Understood," I sigh, and he lets me out of the car.

We creep around the plants just in time to see the two Flashes standing in the middle of the road, cracking a high five over two unconscious guards and a small array of gun parts.

"Seriously?" I didn't even hear them make their move. Who needs stealth when they're that fast? I had read their fastest clocked speeds in Bruce's files, but it hadn't really occurred to me exactly how fast that was. They were literally blurs.

I'm still trying to compute this when Bruce sidesteps around me, suctioning a code breaker onto the warehouse door. Compared to the Flashes' unexpected efficiency, this seems almost slow. On the other hand, this building has a 15-digit PIN code-obviously high priority. I am sufficiently whelmed.

We step inside, Batman and I engaging night vision goggles within our helmets to see better. I don't know how Team Lightning manages it, but they don't knock anything over. The warehouse just looks like your average warehouse so far; it could just as easily belong to Walmart instead of an evil corporation. Batman taps my shoulder lightly and I follow his gaze up to the exposed beams in the ceiling he had pointed out to me earlier.

We rappel up together without further ado, and I have a moment's satisfaction when Kid Flash whirls around, noticing our sudden departure just as we tuck ourselves out of sight. I guess stealth still has its perks.

"We're going for the inner sanctum," Batman tells me, pointing to a large set of doors that are part of a wall that bisects the warehouse in half. Maybe this half is a Walmart lookalike, but I'm betting whatever's on the other side is a lot more interesting.

We creep over the next few beams, taking note of exit routes and possible strategies, and for a moment it feels like it's just the two of us, and this is just another routine job.

"There's a guard stationed right in front of those doors," Batman murmurs, pointing at a pacing watchman who's just turned around a corner into our sight.

"I got him," I say confidently, and spring from the beam, hoping to land on his shoulders and knock him out. Milliseconds before impact my feet are swiped out from under me by a blur of yellow, and I crash on top of someone much less gracefully than I intended, legs and cape tangled together. There's a flutter of fabric behind me and a loud thud as the Batman and Flash take the guard out themselves, and I'm pushed to the side before I can get my wind back.

"Nice job, birdbrain," Kid Flash grits out, obviously winded by ninety-pounds of Robin slamming into his back. It wasn't my fault, but I bite back the rhetorical comeback. One of us has to be mature. I stand up just as an alarm starts blaring in the distance and catch Batman's glare from where he's unlocking the door.

"Keep watch," he snarls in his 'I-am-disappointed' voice, and then lets The Flash slip through the doors with him.

I sag against the doors, ignoring the dull ache in my arm from where I landed on it and trying not to let Kid Flash's off-key humming get on my nerves.

"Guard duty," I mutter. "We've been assigned guard duty."

Even though I was mostly talking to myself, Kid Flash stops humming long enough to ask, "Yeah? So?"

"I should be in there!" I burst out angrily. I _would_ be in there if it were just me and Batman. But no. It's not. And now I'm stuck out here like another sidekick instead of a proper partner.

"I'm hungry," Kid Flash says out of the blue, tone light enough to pull me from my internal grumblings.

"You're _hungry_ ," I repeat incredulously.

He pats his stomach and starts looking around aimlessly. "Yeah, high metabolism and all that."

"...Right." I suppose that makes sense. I may have read something about that in Bruce's notes.

He goes a little jittery all of a sudden, making these finite movements like he's processing a lot at once, and then jumps when he notices me watching. "Don't look at me like that!" And then he's distracted all over again, spinning to look down the corridor. "I wonder if this place has vending machines."

"We can't leave," I point out.

"Just for a seeeeecooond," he pleads, practically vibrating in place with excitement. "You won't even know I'm gone."

"You're really that fast?" I say skeptically.

"Sure! Watch me go!"

I blink and he's gone. And then he's back, so fast that it looks like he just skipped a frame and barely moved.

"Hey," he says, not even out of breath. "Do you want anything?"

"No!" Never mind that I hadn't eaten anything since lunch in the cafeteria. I will not cave under pressure.

Kid Flash shrugs, expression nonchalant. "Your loss."

And then he's gone again.

Predictably, the moment he leaves is the moment that about ten guards charge around the corner, following the sound of klaxons. They pull up short at the sight of me, probably wondering where Batman's hiding.

"Oh, don't worry," I tell them, reaching around my belt for a flash grenade. "It's just me." I throw it into the air and have the ridiculous satisfaction of seeing them all track the object with their eyes before I look away. It goes off, and a few stray gunshots ping the metal around me as they start shooting blind.

"Or worry a lot," I grin, sliding two batarangs into my palms and lunging forward.

The first two are disarmed in unison and then taken out with elbows and knees, respectively. I use the second guy's shoulder like a springboard to kick number three's gun away and land another solid kick to his head before landing.

There's more yelling from the hallway, and I turn-twisting four's arm with me and neatly popping it out of its socket-to see Kid Flash chasing a few reinforcements down the hall. Between the two of us we start making real headway. I'm mostly trying not to laugh at his ridiculous commentary that floats over the melee, punctuated by thwacks and grunts. The guy works fast, I have to give him that.

Guard number six manages to aim his gun at me before I throw a smoke pellet into the floor, releasing an acrid smog that's enough of a distraction for the bullet to fly two inches to my left. He doesn't have time for a second shot.

The last two guards are just fun, and I'm feeling much better as the smoke clears and Kid Flash comes back into view, several unconscious bodies littering the floor between us. I can't help laughing a little; the adrenaline rush is making me feel incredible.

"Ready, songbird?" Kid Flash asks, settling into a ready-stance as more guards come running down the hall, following the commotion.

"Ready, Roadrunner," I beam. He darts forward, grabs the leg of a guard and uses him to bowl down three more. I take out the last two with a taser. It feels a bit like cheating, but they ran right into it.

Kid Flash spins around, a wide grin splitting his face that barely slips when the door behind me opens.

I turn around too, tucking the taser back into my belt and trying to look properly ashamed of myself. Batman had said stealth, and at least twenty unconscious guards on the floor did sort of scream 'vigilante justice.'

Thankfully, time really was of the essence.

"We need to go," Batman snaps. "Now."

"But what about-" I start, shooting a helpless glance over at the Flashes, who don't have anything close to the rappel gear we do.

"They'll be fine," Batman assures me. I look down as we're flying up to the roof to see Flash just casually push his partner through the wall. There's a faint shimmer, like he's disturbing a projection of some sort.

"Is that a fake wall?" I ask breathlessly, helping Batman unscrew the skylight.

"No."

"...Right." I wish I could have gotten a closer look, but by then the skylight's off and Batman's beckoning me outside.

We're back in the Batmobile and driving away before the police sirens start.

* * *

"I said _stealth_ ," Bruce says when we're back in the Batcave that night. His tone is flat, so I can't tell if he's not mad or if he's just really absorbed in dismantling the prototype he stole from the warehouse.

"It wasn't my fault the alarm got set off."

"The alarm was beside the point, you didn't look before you leapt."

I look down at the floor. I guess he had me there.

"You need to work on your cooperation skills," Bruce says, voice still toneless as he unscrews a bolt. "You have to be able to work well with people other than me."

I pretend to be fascinated with a wrench so I wouldn't have to look up.

"Which is why I think we'll arrange for you and Kid Flash to work together more often," Bruce says firmly.

The wrench clatters on the floor. "What?"

"You can start with learning a bit more about him." Bruce passes me a thin binder. "I think you could use a friend."


	6. Sunglasses at Night

**Wally West**

"So, Wally, how do you think that went?" Flash reflectively inquires as we near Central City at mach 2.

"Good," I return. "Up until the Boy Wonder lands on me and the alarm starts."

The Flash warps into a lesson, "Consider that you should've been aware of what was going on around you. And later, you shouldn't have left when you were supposed to be guarding the door."

"How do you even know about that?" I wonder, thinking back.

"You were carrying your snacks."

"Oh, right."

"You need to follow instructions. That was our deal, remember?"

His words from about six months ago echo back, ' _You have to do exactly what I say, when I say it.'_

* * *

How do you go from 'this is a great day' to 'crap, I'm going to die'? Welcome to the life of Wally West, where good things turn into disasters in a flash.

The first stupid decision is made during gym class.

Handball. I used to suck at handball. Mrs. Nelson divides us up evenly and randomly, but it just so works out that one of the four teams has most of the football players on it. The first couple of games go perfectly fine. I mean, we lose, but I make sure that I don't get too excited. I volunteer to keep goal in order to keep myself from too much running. But the last game against the football team is different because they're being giant jerks.

"This is too easy," Brett yells. "Look at this!" He takes the handball and bounces it off Eric's face, catching it again. His friends laugh and Brett passes it to Michael and Jason, who play monkey-in-the-middle, the monkey being this geeky chick in my math class.

In my defense, it's sometimes hard for me to miss things flying directly at my face.

 _Eric looks frustrated_

 _what is wrong with that guy?_

 _a pass to mexican dude_

 _who passes back to jerkface_

 _passing to… me?_

 _no_

 _trying to score_

 _no way, jerkface_

 _the ball comes_

 _left_

 _extending hand left_

 _so slllloooooooooowwww_

 _there's no way I can miss it_

"This is too easy," I mock Brett, holding the ball over my head. "Look at this!" I chuck the handball at his face. Fortunately, I miss; I hit his chest. Unfortunately, the impact is the same. Brett stares at me fiercely. And the rest of that game goes better, because I never missed another ball. No matter how hard Brett, Michael, Jason, and the rest of the other team tries, they can't score. My teammates, surprised but grateful, pretty much sing my praises.

* * *

The second stupid mistake, in chem.

I zone out during a review lecture, urging the second hand on the clock to go faster in the back of class, wishing that it too can get in a lab accident where it gains super speedy powers, when Mr. Shoger asks me to explain carbon bonding. So, I explain it the first way I think of.

"Carbon pretty much bonds with anything and everything that's nearby. It's like a tramp; she's not very interested in monogamy. She doesn't really care who she ends up with in order to satisfy her outer orbital of four electrons."

Several of my classmates snicker. Putting a hand to his face, Mr. Shoger sits down on his stool and shakes his head. Knowing him, probably to hide a smirk.

At the end of his lecture, a really stunning girl that's out of my league comes up to me for once. Melina with her big, brown eyes and long curly brown hair.

"Hey, Wally. I've been having trouble with those Lewis dot structures and you seem to understand what you're doing." Her milk chocolate eyes are practically begging.

"Oh, y-yeah," I stammer, getting my bearings, and putting on a big grin. "Sure! Which part don't you get?"

* * *

The third, stupid and totally preventable, decision is made at last lunch.

I browse the lunch room for a table. I usually get there before the rest of my friends, so they count on me to reserve a seat. But, today I see a better option.

Melina is sitting at the circular table next to the window with other good-looking girls and an open seat next to her is screaming my name.

"Wally!" Literally.

"Hey, ladies," I smoothly deliver, unwaveringly sitting down with my towering lunch tray. Melina's beautiful, big, chocolate eyes grow even bigger.

"Did you manage to find everything?" she jokes.

And that's when every mistake I made today takes its toll.

A large hand comes from behind me and slaps my chest, grabbing a fist full of my shirt and forcing me to stand.

Brett asks me,"What do you think you're doing in my seat, West? Are you trying to ask for something?" Michael and Jason stand behind him, apparently waiting for me to move.

"Not really, but you were being a jerk earlier," I try.

"To Eric?" Brett smirks, standing up straight, looking for confirmation from his buddies. "He doesn't mind. If it's what you want, I can start actually trying to be a jerk to you."

I give him an awkward half-laugh as I attempt to pry his fist off me, "That's one thing I don't need."

Brett only tightens his grip on my shirt, so I stomp on his foot with my heel.

Hearing him grunt, I take off through the cafeteria doors, careful not to run faster than a normal pace. When I look behind me and it's clear, I head to my last class of the day, history, where I manage not to provoke anyone else.

As I reach my locker after the final bell rings, I feel the familiar slap of Brett's hand on my chest. This time, I'm determined not to let him grab me, so I sidestep, maybe a little too quickly from the sudden adrenaline rush.

"Oh-ho!" Brett taunts. "Look who thinks he's the Flash! What're you going to do, Flash? You gonna run?"

What else can I do? I whirl around and do just that, focusing hard on not overstepping normal speeds, I race out the doors by the gym and onto the grounds. Glancing back, heart pounding, I come to three conclusions: 1) Brett, Michael, and Jason are all chasing me and are more than capable of beating me up, 2) I've just run out into the wide-open football field, where I'm giving the football players their home turf and where I can't hide to actually get away, and 3) if I'm going to convince them that that last stunt was normal, I'm going to have to lose this.

' _You'll have a secret that you'll constantly need to hide.'_

They're gaining on me anyway, I can easily slip up like a normal person probably would about now. Forcing myself to breathe harder, I manage to stumble a bit.

' _Your actions will mean something because people will be watching.'_

A backpack hits my legs and I trip for real. Falling onto my front, I lay there panting until one of them kicks me in the side, rolling me over with his foot. Brett. He steps on the middle of my chest, near my gut. My hands immediately going to grasp it uselessly, he slowly puts more and more of his weight on it, steadily increasing in pain.

' _I don't know if I want to be responsible for you.'_

I'm ashamed of the pathetic little groans and gasps that escape my mouth. When I squeeze my eyes shut, I find that they're wet.

"Hey!" a familiar voice shouts. "How about you let the guy up?"

Oh, crud, this could be bad. I struggle to see who it is, but Brett presses down harder.

Jason laughs, "What are you supposed to be? Halloween isn't anytime soon."

No, it's not him.

"Haven't you ever heard of Batman?" Yes, it's him. Little bird-poop-for-brains is back, standing up for me like a hero, and I'm under the foot of some teenage boy with anger management issues. At least he doesn't know that this pathetic geek is Kid Flash.

Then Michael wants to have his turn, "Cool costume, kid. Why don't you run back to elementary school?"

"Get off the guy," Robin snarls. "Or I will destroy any hope you have for a football scholarship in the future."

"Who's gonna make us?" Brett jabs. "You?"

I'm able to catch an amused tint to his voice as he confirms,"Yes. Me."

Robin aims a kick at Brett, managing to get him off my chest. Propping myself up on my elbow, I make an effort to take deep breaths, resulting in only a strong soreness in my chest/gut area. That means he didn't break anything. Good.

Glancing up again, I watch Robin land a punch on Brett's nose, which has to break it, and whirl around on Michael.

"I'm a middle schooler." He pushes Michael. "Get your facts straight." It takes all I have not to laugh because Robin's so small compared to these guys, but he's taking them on like it's no big deal. And it's terrifying Brett, which brings me much joy.

With Jason watching the scuffle in awe, I take the opportunity to casually trip him from my position on the ground. Brett, with his hand covering his nose, retreats back to the school with Jason scrambling up to follow and the terrified Michael behind him.

"Nice mess you got yourself into there, Citizen," Robin states, matter-of-factly. I'm almost convinced that he actually doesn't know until he gives me that self-satisfied eyebrow raise.

I blew it and I don't even know what I did. Letting out a sigh, I stand up, trying hard not to wince,"So you know."

"That hair is borderline iconic. Of course I know," Robin smirks.

"Drat." That's a good point. There aren't many redheads in Central City. If you piece together the garage explosion, the appearance of Kid Flash, and how it mirrors Barry's lab explosion and appearance of the Flash...

"If it's any consolation, it was Batman that figured it out," Robin adds. Okay, if only Batman was able to figure it out, that's pretty good.

Suddenly on edge, I scan the area for anyone who could be watching. I've been talking a little too long with a guy Wally's not supposed to know. On the second floor, through the chem lab window overlooking the football field, I spot a figure. Nice, Mr. Shoger.

"Hey, Dude, can we just get out of here?" I ask, trying to signal with my eyes in the direction of that window. "I think I see my chemistry teacher staring."

"Probably best we go separately," Robin admits. "But I want to talk. Where's a good place to meet?"

I grin and shrug when I offer, "There's a pretty good pizza place down the street?" It occurs to me that Wally shouldn't be hanging out with Robin in costume, so I add, "I mean…," as I gesture towards his attire.

He swats my hesitance away, like it's no big deal. "No, I'll make it work. I'll see you there in...twenty minutes?"

* * *

Needless to say, I'm at the pizza place in less than five minutes, even with going back to school to get my backpack. So, I'm stuck waiting for the additional fifteen, keeping an eye open for a guy who may or may not show up looking like Robin.

On the glass door, the place greets me with its cheerful sun logo and the words, 'Pieces of Pizza' in green swirly font. The front is all glass windows, shaded by the dark green awning. The store is empty, probably because it's 3:30. I open the door with a jingle and I'm immediately greeted by the guy at the register.

"Eh!" he cries enthusiastically. "Wall-ay!"

I love this guy. "Eh! Pizza guy!"

"You know it!" he snaps and points to me.

I switch to all seriousness, "It's pizza time, pizza guy. Do you have the steak and guacamole pizza made?"

"Yessir! How many slices to start this time?" he asks, dancing anxiously next to the display case of ready-made pizzas. It seems like a normal question, but usually customers only have one. Each piece is a sixth of a pizza.

"Let's start small," I grin. "Say, five? A piece of pepperoni, Hawaiian, then bacon cheeseburger, steak and guacamole, and... another bacon cheeseburger one."

"You got it," The guy winks, bringing the five out on paper plates and I dig through my backpack for the money. I go for a stool by the window, throwing my backpack on the floor next to me.

As I pick off a pepperoni and savor it against the roof of my mouth, I start looking out, nervously, for Robin. He wouldn't wear a mask to a pizza joint; he's probably just changing into civilian clothes. Watching out the window, I manage to fit a giant bite in my mouth and choke it down. Smaller bites, savor.

"Hey," A lean kid wearing shades, a green hoodie and jeans greets me.

I quickly respond, "Hey, Dude. Can I-." When I recognize him, I accidentally inhale a bite, so I cough before correcting myself, hopefully covering up my stupid mistake, "Hello."

I didn't even notice him come in! The bell on the door jingled and everything, but as I'm easily distracted by pizza, I'm not that surprised.

"Hi," he greets me again.

"What's with the sunglasses? We're inside," I observe, taking another bite of my juicy steak on the third piece.

"Precaution. What sort of pizza do you recommend?"

I swallow, answering, "All of it!"

Robin blinks, "Right. High metabolism. Be right back."

As I wait for him to get a piece, I consider his intentions. In all places to be, he's in Central City and in all things to do, he saves me from a beating. He might be waiting to ask me for something.

"I didn't get the chance to eat lunch," he comments, sitting on the stool next to me with his slice of pepperoni.

"Hey, me neither!" I exclaim. "I'm going to get more."

When I make it back to my stool, after accumulating another three slices, I work up the nerve to say, "Hey, Rob? Thanks, by the way."

"No problem," Rob responds, picking at a bit of cheese before eating it. "I was in the area. Besides, what would you have done without me?"

"Um. Taken them out, obviously," I roll my eyes, taking a large bite.

Imagining back to lying there helpless, under Brett's foot, I don't see anything I would've changed. I needed to lose. At that moment, Rob showing up was the best thing that could've happened.

"What was that all about, anyway?" Rob asks me.

"Definitely not a girl," I murmur.

Rob snorts.

I nudge him, protesting, "Hey! She's really nice!"

"If you say so," he laughs, clearly making fun of me.

Then the conversation spans into Central City, ice cream, and the Flash museum, (which is just about the cheesiest way to get the public to stop asking questions) the Flash legacy, and even a bit of the garage explosion. By that time, I'm done with my eight pieces and ready to do things.

"So what are you doing for the rest of today?"

"Oh, I don't know. Kicking butt. Defending more helpless sidekicks. Not a lot," Rob sighs, settling more into his seat. I need to know if this guy can enjoy anything normal. This could be fun.

I beam, "Don't suppose I could talk you into a game of Mario Kart?"

"I don't see why not. Are you ready to lose?" Here we go. Yes!

"Hey. My lightning reflexes are legendary, little Robin."

Planting his feet on the ground, he counters,"We'll see." He gestures towards the door like a butler. "Lead on."

* * *

It only occurs to me that I'm bringing Rob, a guy who I don't know an honest fact about, to my house when we get about a block away. But, I've never been one to overthink things, and I really don't get a bad vibe off this guy. He seems sincere enough about wanting to hang out, so I bring him around back through the screen door of the kitchen. Where my mom just so happens to be.

Slipping off my shoes, I greet the general room with, "I'm home!"

Glancing up before dumping a box of spaghetti in a pot of water, she notes,"You're late." Oh, yeah, dinner. I analyse the noodles, deciding I could still go for more, when I realize Mom's looking for a response.

"Uhm, yeah." After a split second of searching for a good excuse, I come up with the truth. "I got held up talking to this new guy." I direct her to Rob, who's still standing by the door, looking slightly lost.

"Oh, hello," Mom greets him appropriately, unlike me.

"Hello," Rob asserts, taking a few steps toward us.

I wrack my brain for a different identity than 'Robin' before smoothly delivering, "This is our new foreign exchange student, Clive."

Instantly receiving an elbow from Rob, he holds his hand out. "He's joking, Mrs. West. My name's Dick." And I could tell he was finally telling the truth.

 _No, his name is Rob!_

 _Dick?! DICK?_

 _slang for penis?_

 _What's he doing? Telling my mom?_

 _mmm noodles_

 _He can't do that!_

 _He's wearing sunglasses inside_

 _can't even see his eyes_

 _he's giving away everything_

 _noodles_

 _How could his parents name him DICK?_

 _Why didn't he tell me before my mom?_

 _of all people_

 _red sauce and meatballs and spaghetti_

" _I dub thee a Dick" Forever you shall be known as…_

 _Dick_

 _The little poop_

Uncontrollably laughing, I think of about a dozen jokes off the top of my head. So many, so little time. I decide it would be rude at this point to say any out loud.

My mom, unfazed, shakes his hand, "Lovely to meet you. Where are you from?"

"Nice to meet you too," he returns. I try to telepathically send Rob-I mean, DICK?-some close cities where Mom wouldn't know anyone. Probably saying the first thing on his mind, he comes up with, "Romania." Got it, he's sticking with the foreign exchange student thing.

"Right, yeah, Romania." It's supposed to be the truth, don't oversell it. I throw my arm across his shoulders. "Hey, Mom?"

Sound it out.

"Deh-ik… And I are going to talk in my room. Okay? Bye!"

Grabbing him, I drag him up the squeaky wooden steps and into my bedroom, where I drop on my bed. I stare up at the ceiling, trying not to make a big deal, which I tend to do.

"Seriously?!" I demand at the ceiling, but then look at the guy standing awkwardly where I left him in the middle of my room.

"What?"

"Your name is Dick?!"

He goes defensive, like the first time I made fun of 'Robin'. "It is what it is, Wallace." He enunciates each syllable of my full name. He makes a good point. "It's a nickname for Richard."

I can't help it, though; I try to call his bluff, "You're making this up."

"No." A moment of silence where I feel the tension release as he sits next to me, trying to relax, before he continues, "It doesn't seem fair for me to know your name without you knowing mine."

I spring to sit up next to him, trying to collect answers to all my questions, "Oh. Wait. So your actual name is-"

"Dick Grayson," he throws it out there like he needed to say it quick or it wouldn't get out there at all.

But it sets my mind spinning, searching for a connection that I felt was somewhere, itching in the back of my brain. Mental images of a news reporter and… fire? No. I mutter, "I've heard that name before."

Suddenly he's off on other things. "Yeah, well, how about that Mario Kart?"

If he was worried about fairness and he already knew all this stuff about me beforehand and he just so coincidentally was there outside my school, I voice, "Wait, does this mean you were spying on me?"

"No. Yes? Kind of?" he dishes out. That's a 'yes, definitely, but I realize that's bad, so I'm going to act unsure'. He rolls his eyes, asking, "Honestly, you're just figuring that out now?"

"I had other things to worry about!" I stress. Recalling that he's here for Mario Kart, I turn on the tv in the corner. If he's worried about fairness… "Can you tell me who Batman is?"

"Not right now. It's pretty obvious though." I turn on the Wii, confirming to myself that Mario Kart is actually in there.

It's obvious, huh?

"It's not my chemistry teacher, is it?" I ask, piecing it together. Of course, it all made sense! Mr. Shoger is super smart and he could totally-

"Yes, Wally," he answers blankly, immediately disproving my theory. For some reason, it strikes me that that's the first time he uses my real name as he sarcastically responds,"Your chemistry teacher is The Batman."

"Really?!" I humor him, throwing him a controller.

"No," he snorts, knocking my head with his controller as the 'start' screen starts with the theme music. "Let's do this."

* * *

I'm a boss. I'm a pro. I'm the Mario Kart master! Rob's not nearly as bad as I expect and he's good to team up with, but he still gets pwned! I take shortcuts, but I never get the chance to lap him. Decent. As always, I get completely immersed in the gameplay and can't help but yell when I get shelled or I fall off the track. And Rob joins in. Noting his skill with aiming green shells and planting disastrous banana peels, he doesn't suck overall.

I end up asking Rob if he wants to stay for dinner. He respectfully declines, which I totally understand. I help him escape out the front door without being spotted.

When I plop down for dinner, Mom asks, "Where's your friend, Dick?"

I have to take a deep breath so I don't start laughing again, but I manage, "Don't worry; I offered dinner, but he had to go home. I think we'll hang out again sometime."

Rushing through dinner, all I can think of is his name, 'Dick Grayson', which sounds so familiar that I'm probably going to kick myself once I figure it out. After a sufficient number of helpings to the spaghetti and meatballs, I excuse myself to my room, plunk down at my desk, open my laptop, and type 'Dick Grayson' into Google.

Even though it's not the first hit, my eyes are drawn to an article titled, 'Flying Graysons Tragedy'. Scanning the page: 'accident', 'Haly International Traveling Circus', 'last surviving member of the Flying Graysons', 'Dick Grayson orphaned', 'adoption', 'Bruce Wayne'. Going back to read the article in detail, I realize that this is Robin's backstory.

Everything suddenly makes more sense. From the ease of his acrobatic moves to his determination and arrogant demeanor.

Going to 'images', I'm bombarded with pictures of the slim kid, without shades, and a tall and dark man in a business suit, Dick Grayson with Bruce Wayne of Wayne Enterprises.

One particular picture grabs my attention. It's obvious it's a paparazzi photo, it's slightly blurry, but it looks like it was taken right after the accident. Clicking on the link, it leads me to another article, this one titled 'What Happened to the Flying Graysons?'. This page details the afterwards: a police investigation of the alleged 'accident', the death of the suspected crime boss, and 'where is Dick Grayson now?'. Then the paparazzi photo comes up in the article of a distant view of Dick in a crowd of other performers, just able to see his face - the face of a boy whose entire life was inexplicably torn out from under him.

I'm struck with horror at the thought of this happening to me. Watching as my parents, the people I just ate dinner with, are killed. Feeling the air being sucked out of me. The sickening thuds of bodies hitting the floor. Helplessly watching, unable to do anything. And then finding out someone did it carelessly and intentionally.

Would I have the guts to go after the guy who did it? Would I have worked as hard as he had for vengeance?

Closing the laptop, I can't help but think that might be just about the saddest thing ever.

Then it occurs to me who Batman must be.


	7. Reindeer Games with the Wests

**Dick Grayson**

When Bruce had handed me the binder on Kid Flash my first thought was that it was thin-not exactly Bruce's best work when it came to research. I had seen binders about Superman and Green Arrow and other big-name superheroes, and they were all easily three times the size of this one. I realize, in retrospect, that the smaller size was just because Kid Flash really hadn't been around that long. Where Superman has entire chapters devoted to his various missions, Kid Flash barely has a page.

And yet, Bruce's research skills obviously haven't failed too badly, because the binder is still over an inch thick and is crammed with personal information and trivia.

'Wallace Rudolph West,' it turns out, is The Flash's nephew. I'm surprised to find out that they actually aren't biologically related, although their propensity towards scientific mishaps doesn't seem to have anything to do with genetics. 'Wally,' as he apparently likes to be called, had recreated the experiment that turned his uncle into a speedster in the family garage and suffered (or achieved, depending on your point of view) the same results. He's been working with The Flash ever since while attending his last year of junior high in Central City. Bruce's personal notes on him are things like "chip off the old block" and "enthusiastic." He had stopped just short of listing him as "good friend material," but that was still the overall theme I got from The Binder as a whole.

Bruce obviously wanted me to get to know him better, if only to stop us smacking into each other every time our teams had to cooperate.

Or maybe he just thought I should be talking to someone my own age. It was hard to tell, given how little he'd been around ever since the warehouse incident.

I didn't take his absence as badly as I used to. He had business trips and international organizations to topple, and I had Alfred and Netflix, so I was mostly good. Bruce liked to leave me little projects to do if he was gone for more than a couple days: root out a drug den, find the corrupt police officer, whatever.

This time all he left me was The Binder.

I putz with it for a few days, reading in small increments because it's sort of unnerving to be so immersed in someone else's life. This Wally guy looks like he has things mostly under control. Decent grades (not as high as mine, I note smugly), large family presence, outgoing personality, not a whole lot of visible angst. I decide he's worth a visit, if nothing else, to try and smooth over our disastrous first meeting.

"I'm going out," I tell Alfred over breakfast.

One of his eyebrows inches up skeptically as he passes me an omelette. "Visiting friends, Master Dick?"

"Something like that," I answer vaguely. He knows I don't have any real friends, but at the same time he probably won't pry. "I'll be back for dinner, okay?"

"Will you be taking the bike, Master Dick?"

I swing my fork in a little circle, buying time to swallow. "Zeta tubes, Alfred. I thought I'd take them for a swing."

"Very well." Alfred dunks the omelette pan into the sink. "Make sure you eat something for lunch."

* * *

I'm unfortunately used to going for long stretches without food, and it doesn't actually strike me that I've missed lunch entirely until the final bell rings at Kid Flash's high school. Or junior high? These kids look more my age.

I hunker down out of sight behind a garbage bin on the football field's risers and tell myself I'm not stalking. I'm totally not stalking. I just forgot that not every school district in America takes a day off to celebrate our militant police force. And, for all my training in diversionary tactics, I just didn't see a way to quietly sneak into a densely populated school in my costume to say hi.

There had only been a few glimpses of a redhead who I assumed was Wally throughout the day. He looked smug coming out of the gymnasium, dozed through a science class (even though it was his favorite, according to The Binder), and got shoved around a bit by a massive linebacker in the cafeteria. I don't see him again.

For the sixth or seventh time I eye the pack of civilian clothes I brought and wonder if that would make blending in any easier. And, like always, I look over the field again and sigh. This place isn't like Gotham where you try to keep your head down and go about your business. This is lively-open-a place where you could literally know everyone by name and definitely recognize the newbie awkwardly hovering outside of Wally West's homeroom. Still a no-go. What would Bruce do?

Bruce would be patient.

Students have started trickling out through the doors, and I peek over my garbage bin to see a bit of commotion by one of them.

Of course it's Wally. I don't know why I'm surprised to see him sprinting across the field towards me. He looks determined, but his pace is no faster than your average high school student: he's barely outpacing the three jocks chasing after him.

I don't quite know what to do. On the one hand, I don't want to blow whatever sort of cover he has here by intervening, but he also has a _lot_ of ground to cover before he can safely get away, and these guys look like they mean business. Sure, they're toothpicks to Kid Flash, but mild-mannered Wally West? I'd been there. There's not a lot you can do.

Sure enough, one of the older guys chucks his backpack and one of the straps gets tangled around Wally's foot. He thuds onto the grass, and the biggest of the thugs doesn't waste much time before kicking him onto his back, leaning most of his weight onto Wally's chest.

Okay.

So much for patience.

"Hey!" I shout, vaulting over the riser railing and landing on the edge of the field. I don't miss a beat: these guys don't scare me. I'm safe behind the mask. "How about you let the guy up?"

Wally coughs weakly as the big guy grinds his shoe into his ribs. I'm starting to look forward to taking him out.

One of his cohorts laughs at me. "And what are you supposed to be?" he sneers. "Halloween isn't anytime soon."

Strike one. "Haven't you ever heard of Batman?" I fire back.

Wally's eyes snap open and he tilts his head to stare at me incredulously, expression a mix of horror and embarrassment that makes me wonder if I should have stepped in.

"Cool costume kid," the third jock sniggers. "Why don't you run back to elementary school?" Strike two.

"Get off the guy," I growl, "Or I will destroy any hope you have for a football scholarship in the future."

"Who's gonna make us?" the ape on Wally's chest jeers. "You?"

I grin. Strike three. "Yes. Me."

This guy is big. I've fought bigger, but he looks like he outweighs me by about a hundred pounds. I spin around, faking to the left and then slam a side kick into his hip. He buckles, and it's instinct by now to follow it up with a roundhouse that sends him staggering to the side, hopefully not accidentally stomping on Wally in the process. Wally's gasp sounds more relieved than pained, which is good because if this guy had hurt him I would have had to break his arm.

As it is, I settle for his nose.

When he goes down, I smack my fist against another thug's collarbone-the one who mistook me for an elementary school student. There's no crack (unlike his friend), but it's a hard hit and is enough to knock him backwards.

"I'm a middle schooler," I bark before shoving him onto his knees. "Get your facts straight."

He and the head honcho dash away, the big guy's nose is a bloody mess. There's a satisfying _thud_ behind me as Wally manages to trip up the third bully as he scrambles after them. Scared and intimidated. Perfect.

I turn around, and Wally's propped up on grass-stained elbows, looking at me blankly.

"Nice mess you got yourself into there, Citizen," I tease, crossing my arms and trying to look benevolent instead of pleased.

Wally slumps back onto the field for a minute before resignedly climbing to his feet. "So you know."

"That hair is borderline iconic," I laugh, politely ignoring the little wince he makes when he stands. "Of course I know."

"Drat."

He scrubs a hand through his hair, expression unusually distant. I know he just confirmed that I found the right guy, but this kid really doesn't seem a lot like the guy I fell on back at the warehouse. He's quieter-more careful. His eyes seem a lot greener without the goggles, and while he's not afraid to meet my eye he doesn't come off as challenging as he did in costume.

It's the lack of cockiness that makes me offer gently, "If it's any consolation, it was Batman that figured it out."

Wally nods again and looks down at the ground, revealing a line of freckles across his nose I hadn't noticed with his mask on. His eyes flick up to mine urgently.

"Hey Dude, can we just get out of here? I think I see my chemistry teacher staring." He keeps trying to direct me to look over my shoulder just using his eyes. We're being watched.

I remember again that this isn't Gotham, and breaking an athlete's nose on the football field probably isn't a normal occurrence around here. "Probably best we go separately," I say briskly. "But I want to talk. Where's a good place to meet?"

Wally's eyes light up and I mentally groan. If the disastrous thing with the vending machines back in the warehouse was any indication, this is going to involve food. The Binder had confirmed that he really _did_ have a super-fast metabolism.

Sure enough, Wally smiles crookedly and says, "There's a pretty good pizza place down the street. I mean..." He trails off, giving me a once over. I bristle a little: just because I live in Gotham doesn't mean that I have to have _all_ of my meetings in poorly lit alleys.

"No, I'll make it work," I say airily. "I'll see you there in...twenty minutes?"

* * *

While public bathrooms are not the most ideal place to change out of costume, they do in a pinch.

It dawns on me that when Wally said 'down the street,' he didn't say which street he meant. I push my sunglasses up my nose and walk around the school block, eventually picking the street that looks like it has the most shops. I can't get _that_ lost.

It wasn't the right street, but I get lucky on my second attempt and stumble across "Pieces of Pizza," which looks like something right out of a comic book with its glass windows and homey feel. At least the windows are shielded from the sun by an awning so passersby can't peek inside. I suppose it's alright. At least the conversation of other customers might mask ours.

I step inside and am immediately blasted with a cacophony of smells. The cheese and bread smells are expected, but I pick out weird herbs and spices and...steak?

I look around. The place is absolutely empty except for someone behind the counter and a certain redhead happily curled around an overflowing plate at a table. The emptiness confuses me for a minute before I remember that I accidentally skipped lunch, and I'm kind of excited that I get to keep my promise to Alfred after all.

Wally is practically inhaling a slice of pepperoni when I walk around his table. "Hey."

"Hey Dude," he says blandly. "Can I-" He chokes, coughs, and I see the puzzle pieces fit together as he links me, in my baggy-sweatshirt-glory, with the kid who saved his butt on the football field half an hour ago.

He swallows hard. "Hello."

"Hi," I say brightly. The pizza smells really good.

Wally wedges half a piece of steak pizza into his mouth and cocks an eyebrow at me. "What's with the sunglasses?" he mumbles. "We're inside."

I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. "Precaution." And by precaution, I mean Bruce would kill me if I took them off. I twist around, eyeing the impressive counter of pizzas behind me. "What sort of pizza do you recommend?"

"All of it!"

I have to work not to laugh. He's consistent if nothing else. "Right. High metabolism. Be right back."

I can feel his eyes on me as I talk to the pizza guy about what sort's the best, and belatedly realize that I probably freaked him out a bit, showing up so suddenly. Not to mention I hadn't exactly caught him at a good time. He's eyeing me a bit warily as I come back to the table, large slice of pepperoni in hand.

I try to sound casual and friendly as I sit down on the barstool next to him and admit, "I didn't get a chance to eat lunch."

"Hey, me neither!" Wally exclaims, then holds up his empty plate. "I'm going to get more!"

 _He's escaping_ , I think. He doesn't want to talk to me. I sigh and pick at my slice of pizza, fully expecting to hear the bell over the door ring as he dashes out.

But instead he drops back down beside me, three more equally-large pieces of pizza on his plate.

"Hey Rob?" he says hesitantly. "Thanks, by the way."

I'm thankful for the sunglasses because they mean he doesn't see the way my eyes go wide. This might honestly be the first time someone's thanked me. Maybe he wasn't so freaked out after all.

"No problem. I was in the area." I'm picking at my pizza more than I'm eating it. It means I don't have to watch his facial expression. "Besides, what would you have done without me?"

"Um, taken them out, obviously." _There's_ the cockiness I was missing. He crams another piece of pizza into his mouth and dares me to argue.

I don't. Instead I ask, "What was that all about, anyway?"

"Definitely not a girl," Wally says sullenly.

I can't help sniggering, and he reaches over to whack my elbow, cheeks turning pink as he cries defensively, "Hey! She's really nice!"

"If you say so," I laugh. The Binder had a few notes about his flirting tendencies.

He rips off a piece of crust and chews for a few minutes until the flush is gone, and by then I've decided it wouldn't be rude to ask about the zeta tubes in the Flash museum.

Somewhere in-between him praising the name of a particular ice cream parlor a few blocks away and explaining his grandfather, I start to wonder if maybe we're friends.

The thought is clamped down on as soon as it occurs, of course. Friendship requires a mutual sharing of information, and while Wally definitely seems to trust me, I haven't told him anything about myself.

Still, superhero friends. It's not an entirely unpleasant thought, and it grows a little stronger when Wally sets aside his empty plate and asks brazenly, "So what are you doing for the rest of today?"

I lean back on my stool, faking disinterest. "Oh, I don't know. Kicking butt. Defending more helpless sidekicks. Not a lot."

He grins challengingly at me. "Don't suppose I could talk you into a game of Mario Kart?"

I perk up. The Binder hadn't mentioned this. "I don't see why not," I say loftily. "Are you ready to lose?"

Wally cracks his knuckles. "Hey. My lightning reflexes are legendary, little Robin."

I slide off of my barstool and hold my arm towards the door. "We'll see. Lead on."

* * *

Wally's house is modest and warm, sitting indiscreetly in a row of similar houses. He leads me around to a back porch, and we turn up in a small vestibule that leads into the kitchen.

"I'm home!" Wally shouts, toeing out of his shoes. I reach down to undo the laces of mine, and Wally's already in the kitchen. Typical.

His mother, Mary (from The Binder), is making dinner and looks up at him when he enters, saying in tone that's part worry, part annoyance, "You're late."

"Uhm, yeeah," Wally stalls, and then doesn't hesitate to throw me under the bus, pointing at me over his shoulder. "I got held up talking to this new guy."

Mrs. West peeks around at me. She has a no-nonsense look that I immediately appreciate, but her voice is kind and curious when she looks at me and says, "Oh, hello."

"Hello," I say politely.

"This is our new foreign exchange student," Wally fibs expertly. "Clive."

Excuse me? I elbow him sharply and offer my hand to his mother. "He's joking, Mrs. West. My name's Dick."

Wally splutters behind me. I might have spluttered myself if I hadn't been concentrating on keeping a straight face. Bruce is going to kill me.

His mother either doesn't notice or is impervious to her son's outbursts because she takes my hand and says with genuine interest, "Lovely to meet you. Where are you from?"

"Nice to meet you too," I reply, and "Romania" just sort of slips out to answer her question. Great. I am digging my own grave.

"Right, yeah, Romania," Wally jumps back into the conversation, slinging an arm around my shoulders. "Hey Mom, Dick"-he stumbles a little on the name and I try not to flinch-"and I are going to talk in my room okay bye!"

I gratefully let him tow me out of the room and up a rickety flight of stairs. He throws open a door to a stereotypical teenage bedroom and slams the door behind us before collapsing onto his bed, feet hanging over the edge.

"Seriously?!"

"What?" I blink.

"Your name is _Dick_?!"

I suddenly remember why I don't have friends, much less go over to their houses.

"It is what it is, Wallace." I throw my hands in the air and say defensively, "It's a nickname for Richard."

Wally snorts. "You're making this up."

"No." I eye the window thoughtfully. If I made a break for it now, I might be able to make it back to the zeta tubes and hide before I make an even bigger mess of things.

But that doesn't seem fair.

I sigh and sink down on the edge of the bed next to Wally, voicing my thoughts dully, "It doesn't seem fair for me to know your name"-and a lot of other things-"Without you knowing mine."

Wally lurches into an upright position, hair spiked at odd angles. "Oh. Wait. So your _actual_ name is-"

"Dick Grayson." No going back now.

His eyebrows come together. "I've heard that name before," he mutters.

I could explain, but it seems wise to draw the line while I have a hope of survival. "Yeah, well...How about that Mario Kart?" I say lamely.

He's still frowning. "...Wait, does this mean you were spying on me?"

"No," I lie automatically, and then remember that we're kind of friends. "Yes...? Kind of?" I roll my eyes. "Honestly, you're just figuring that out now?"

"I had other things to worry about!" Wally shouts indignantly, sliding off of the bed to boot up a small television in the corner of his room. He whips around eagerly. "Can you tell me who Batman is?"

"Not right now." I sigh resignedly. Thanks to me he'll figure it out soon enough. "It's pretty obvious though."

Wally pauses again in the middle of switching the input cables on the TV. "It's not my chemistry teacher, is it?"

"Yes Wally," I deadpan. "Your chemistry teacher is The Batman."

"REALLY?!"

"No," I snort, swatting his head with a wiimote as the menu screen boots up. "Let's do this."

* * *

I thought it would be hard to keep the conversation away from Batman for the rest of the afternoon, but it's surprisingly easy. We slip into a comfortable rhythm of alternatively yelling at NPCs or at each other, and after about ten minutes of playing cooperatively we're back to actively trying to bash each other off of the course. Wally wins overall, but my scores are respectable.

"You could stay for dinner?" he asks.

"No thanks. I don't want to explain why I'm wearing sunglasses indoors at night," I sigh. "Thanks though."

"Thank _you_ ," Wally grins, and then helps smuggle me out the front door so his parents don't see me leave.

It's not really dark yet, but it seems cool and gloomy in comparison to the West's house. I realize with a small pang that that had been the first time in...years I'd been in a house where both parents were present.

And alive.

I bite the inside of my cheek and tried not to think about it. I had read that Wally lived with two parents, of course. It had been in The Binder, along with his shoe size and favorite flavor of ice cream. It just hadn't really dawned on me that something like that could be _important_.

I wasn't knocking Bruce or anything. He was great, perfect, more than I could have asked for, and Alfred was practically a parent to both of us.

But it wasn't the same. Wayne mansion didn't feel warm the same way the West's house did.

I debate not going home for a while, but then my stomach starts growling and I realize that half a slice of pepperoni pizza doesn't exactly count as lunch, and it's already past six.

I trek back to the Flash museum a bit wretchedly, anticipating telling Bruce that I sort of accidentally outed my secret identity and subsequently his own to a junior high kid. I hope he kills me quickly.

Bruce must have a sixth sense that alerts him when I don't want to talk to him, because he's waiting for me in the Batcave when I get back. We're both in civilian clothes, and I wonder how long ago he got back.

"Alfred says you were visiting a friend?" he says mildly.

"Wally West?" I say hesitantly.

"How did it go?"

"I..." I trail off helplessly. "I kind of...did a thing."

"Oh?"

He's down to monosyllables and single-word sentences. I am so dead.

"I had pizza?" I offer. "And then went over to his house? And kind of told him and his mom my name?"

"Is that a question?" Bruce growls.

"No Sir."

"And?"

"What?" I gasp. "And what?"

"And?" he repeats silkily. That tone is dangerous.

"I told him my full name," I admit in a rush. "He's probably googling it right now. He'll probably tell the Flash. I'm sorry, Bruce."

"And?"

"That's it, I swear."

"No it's not." He looks like he's enjoying this.

"I...saved him from some bullies at his school?" I say slowly.

"And?"

"Played Mario Kart?"

"And?"

I'm scrambling now. "Met his mom? I don't know."

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Yes?"

"Is that a question?"

"No." He _is_ enjoying this.

"Do you think you'll be spending more time with him in the future?"

"I don't-maybe?" He raises an eyebrow, and I hurriedly correct myself, "Yes."

"Good," he says. "Let's go upstairs. Alfred made popcorn and suggests that we take a night off."

"Bruce?"

He turns around to look at me. "You did well. It's important to make strong alliances and friendships."

"But he knows," I say weakly.

Bruce sighs, and then says dryly, "I think he can keep a secret."


	8. The Chamber of Secrets

**Wally West**

As soon as I pieced it all together, I've needed to tell Rob ASAP that I totally understand him now. I've even waited until the socially-acceptable hour of two in the afternoon before showing up at his house. Wayne Manor. A few miles outside of Gotham City because billionaires can't live in the city.

Approaching the mansion, I'm struck by how enormous it is. Not that I wasn't expecting it to be big, but wow. It's practically a castle of endless corridors, tall windows and towers, seeming to spread on forever. And it's surrounded by a mass of hedges and other plants as well as a black gothic-style fence.

I jog up to the gate on the fence, grab the bars with both hands, and rock back and forth. With the gate being locked, I can't go over the fence, can't go around it, can't go under it. The only way to get past is through it. Each bar in the fence is about six inches apart, and I just need to get my torso past. Stepping through with one leg, I position myself so I just have to vibrate fast enough to phase for a second in order to slip between the bars.

I can totally do this.

Trying not to think of the consequences of me failing, which is an iron bar stuck in my torso, I mentally go over the steps while I take a second to tighten my goggles. Tensing up my muscles into vibrations, I close my eyes and focus on acceleration and speed of light, even though I can't go that fast. When I suddenly can't feel, that's when I make my move, shifting over. Unable to hold onto that speed anymore, I drop it, feeling a wave of relief as I feel the presence my body again and nothing hurts.

Running up the freshly mown lawn, I enjoy the smell until I feel my nose start to tickle. I stop. I watch a drop of red fall into my open palm, followed by several more. Ah, crud.

Taking a deep breath and pinching my nose, I continue the trek up the lawn, past a really cool expensive car and a fountain in the middle of the stone driveway.

After hitting the doorbell with my elbow, I shift my weight from foot to foot anxiously (no, I don't need to pee) at the double doors of the Wayne Manor. With one hand still clenching the bridge of my nose, I tilt my head back, accidently sniffling in blood and tasting it in my mouth. After waiting a whole thirty seconds (yes, I counted), I press it again, unable to contain any of my excitement.

As soon as the double doors open, I see just the person I've been dying to see, Rob. In a green sweatshirt and gray jeans, he stands with his hand still on the door handle, like he's trying to decide if he wants to deal with me right now. He seems revolted at the sight of me. Which is understandable, I am bleeding all over his fancy front step.

Trying my best not to burst, I practically shout, "It's Bruce Wayne, isn't it?" I wipe at the blood pooling above my lip.

"What the heck happened?" His eyes grow wide, but then he seems to reconsider, "Actually, never mind, I don't want to know."

Pushing my goggles up onto my forehead, I grin evilly, "No, no, man, you really do."

"No, I really-"

"Nothing can keep me away, Robbie!" I joke, holding out my arms for a hug that I'm sure he won't return. "Not even your murderous fence." I let my arms drop.

Unamused, he scans over the fence behind me. "What did you do to the fence?"

"The gate was locked. I phased through the bars." I explain with a shrug as I hold my nose, letting the sticky liquid collect in my hand. I almost wipe it on my jeans before reconsidering. Then I switch back to the reason I'm here with: "But it is, isn't it? It's totally Bruce Wayne."

"Yes, it's Bruce Wayne," he confirms dryly. Knew it! "Can I help you with something else?"

"Do you have a PS3?" I demand, trying to pinch my nose again, scratching off some dried blood.

"Um," Rob seems caught a little off guard.

I further insist, "Because I really want to play Immortal Tactics." It's this really cool game that just came out and I really need to try it. If he has it then all my dreams will have come true.

"Yes, I have a playstation," he admits. Knew it!

I hear footsteps approaching the door from behind Rob so I ask, "Is Wayne home?" I try to look around behind him but it's lighter out here than in there, so I can't see anything.

"Master Wayne is at work, I'm afraid," informs some old guy with a British accent and a feather duster. He's dressed formally (or casually? I can never tell with rich people.) in a black suit and with his fancy British moustache and balding gray hair. After a disapproving glance at my bloody hands holding my nose, he adds, "I'll go fetch the ice compress."

"Wally, this is Alfred, our butler," Rob says, leaning to the side for introductions. "Alfred, Wally." He gives me a polite nod before disappearing to "fetch" what I believe is also known as an ice pack.

When he's gone, I stress, "You have a butler?"

If I had a butler… Actually I think I'd like a cook instead.

"Yeah…"

"Holy crap!" Alfred the Butler is already back, handing me an ice pack. Bringing it to my nose, careful not to get too much red body fluid on it, I ask, "Can I see the Batcave?"

Alfred the Butler looks slightly shocked and tenses a bit. I readjust the ice pack, which is freezing my hand off, but I can almost feel it working.

Rob answers, "Um...maybe?"

"Does Master Wayne know about this?" Alfred the Butler demands of Rob. And I realize that maybe I'm not supposed to be here.

"Yes, he does. This was the friend I was visiting yesterday. I don't know why he's here," Rob glares in my direction. Starting to feel like a trespasser because he hasn't invited me in yet, I consider how unfair it is that he just showed up in my town yesterday and I took him in without pause. But I guess that's just me. Here I am with a nosebleed at his front door and he's trying to get rid of me.

Trying to quickly get over the awkward, I beg, "I just really want to play Immortal Tactics. And see the Batcave."

I picture the Batcave in my head. A treasure trove of everything Batman. A secret layer in the depths of the earth pleading to be opened by a certain fun-loving redheaded speedster so he can marvel over it in all its glory. An actual cave with actual Batman stuff in it. But I need to know for sure!

Alfred the Butler looks taken aback, declaring, "This is all highly unprecedented."

"But it's okay, Alfred. I got this," Rob calms him. Oh, great, I've upsetted the butler.

"Will you be entertaining your guest in your room, Master Dick?" Alfred the Butler demands, straightening up, trying to stay proper in this stressful time.

"Uum," Rob hesitates.

Taking the opportunity to tell him what I would prefer, I subtly suggest, "Batcave, batcave, batcave, batcave."

Rob completely ignores me, looking to Alfred the Butler, who raises an eyebrow.

"Yes," Rob decides. "We will be in my room."

"But Rawwhb," I moan, stretching out his name to show my disappointment.

He finally gestures me inside, to my great relief. "It's not something I can just show you."

"But-" I start to complain, but then I can finally see the inside. "Whoa, your house is really big." The entryway is extremely impressive, from the wood carvings on the walls to the polished marble floor. A colossal chandelier hangs above us, the brass shining brilliantly next to the light. All along the walls, ancient artifacts, antiques, and such is displayed.

"Would you be interested in some of the house's history?" Alfred the Butler speaks over my thoughts. I might just say yes in order to hear more of that accent.

"Maybe another time, Alfred," Rob interrupts. His hastiness makes me reconsider whether hearing Alfred the Butler talk about the house that he's obsessed with would be entertaining or boring.

Off the entryway, I'm herded into the fanciest half-bathroom I've ever seen. Oh, man. Can I touch the gold sink handles? Slowly raising my hand to the handle, Rob decides I'm too slow and flips on the hot water.

"My room's just up the stairs. I'll wait for you around the corner," he says, closing the door with his foot.

"Do be sure to use the linens on the right side of the sink, Mister West," Alfred the Butler says promptly. It strikes me odd that he somehow knows my last name.

For some reason, the whole bathroom smells like lilacs and I can't find where the smell is coming from. As I glance up at my image in the gold framed mirror, I notice why Alfred the Butler and Rob were in such a hurry to get me cleaned up. I look like a zombie that just ate someone. There's a thick dried blood stream from my left nostril and down my chin. And a clump in between my lips.

Soaking a rag in the sink, I sniffle and cough before turning off the facet. I lean over the sink, giving my face and neck a wipe down.

Maybe I shouldn't have come, Rob doesn't really seem to want me here. But I can't leave now.

I wash my hands in the sink and pull off my goggles. Looking at my reflection in them, I rub off the blood splatter before shoving them in my pocket. It's all good.

Rejoining Rob out in the hall, I envisage what I just did.

"...I think I used the linens on the left side. Is Alfred the Butler going to kill me?"

Rob smiles, assuring me, "No, he's not going to kill you. C'mon."

On our way up the stairs, I look back down the hall we just came down, each doorway giving away glimpses of untold luxury. Maybe the Waynes are royalty and this is their palace. But I can't picture Rob in any of these prissy rooms, so I ask curiously, "You really live here?"

"Yeah. A lot of the front rooms are just for show. It gets less stuck-up the farther in you get."

"I guess…" My mind wanders off, imagining the possibilities that come with a giant house full of old and expensive items. I stare at a shield hanging behind the railing. Imagining myself holding it to fend off Robin attacks, I boldly suggest, "What would happen if I broke something?"

Rob gives me a look that says, 'I can't believe you're the older one,' and then he actually voices, "Alfred would toss you out on the sidewalk with the rest of the compost."

I don't doubt Alfred the Butler would even debate it. Promptly turning away, I trail behind Rob as we climb these never-ending stairs.

"How many floors are there anyway?"

"Four including the basement."

I casually add, "How many including the Batcave?"

"Seven." After a moment where I can't help but to explode with happiness, I smile at Rob and he says, "Stop looking at me like that, I'm not going to show you."

"You say that, but your eyes say differently," I practically sing. He's going to show me eventually.

After he gives me a scornful look and throat noise, he spins back around to continue up the steps, leaving me there.

"I was kidding," I tell him, racing up to catch him at the top of the stairs. "C'mon, Rob! Don't be like that!"

Undaunted, he says, "My room's this way." He starts off down the hall and my mind is immediately back on the Batcave.

I ask, "So are there, like, secret corridors that lead to the Batcave all over the house or what?" The wood panel wall looks promising for some sort of hidden door and I go to analyze it. Until Rob turns around. I pause.

"They're secret, Wally," Rob says sternly with a slight glare.

"Yeah, but hypothetically?" I finagle.

Rob strictly crosses his arms, "Wally."

"Okay, okay." I let it go because I can't take his austereness right now and we've stopped in front of a door.

"Here we are," he announces, opening it. What is it about this house that makes me exclaim everytime a door is opened?

"Woah," I automatically say, not only because it's one of the most expensive bedrooms I've ever seen but also one of the messiest. In the room about three times the size of mine, I can just see bits of the wooden floor under the layer of discarded clothes and half-eaten snack wrappers. The room is relatively dark due to the heavy curtains on the tall windows. An open door on one wall leads to a messy bathroom. A large flat-screen TV is mounted on the wall across from his bed, which has got to be king-sized. Underneath the TV is a video game cabinet filled with shelves and shelves of playstation, xbox, and wii games as well as each system.

I speculate as to why Alfred the Butler doesn't clean this room. Maybe he just gave up. But then I discover, off in the corner, sits a mini-fridge with a microwave on top.

"You have a microwave in your room?" I stress, facing him in awe. If I had a microwave in my room… Actually I think I'd like a kitchen.

"Uh. Yeah," he confirms, explaining carefully. "For heat packs and stuff."

"You have a microwave in your room and you don't use it for food?" I put my hands on my hips and glare.

Finally smiling, he suggests,"I could make some popcorn?"

"Why don't you!" I aggressively propose, offended that he could use the microwave for anything other than food.

As Rob magically pulls a microwaveable popcorn bag from some secret location, I watch intensely to him popping the bag in and pressing a few buttons that beep. beep. beep. Then I hear the mechanisms come alive and a countdown starts.

I offhandedly brush a T-shirt off the cabinet to inspect the video games. The guy might have all the games that have been awarded 'Game of the Year', this is worth more than gold, at least to me.

As casually as I can manage, I say, "So, you used to be an acrobat?" Flipping open the cabinet doors, I pull out Immortal Tactics for PS3, but I can't help but notice he also has it for xbox. Why?

"Yep," he replies from behind me. Knew it!

"Was it a big change, going from that sort of lifestyle to this one?" I ask, jumping up with the game, hoping to learn more about what living at a circus is like. With a bitter slap I realize how tormented Rob's face looks.

"You mean was it a big change when my parents were murdered? Yeah, Wally. That's a pretty big change," he barks with an hateful stare. I cringe, caught completely off guard. Ah crap, crap, crap. Why don't I think?

The popcorn starts popping vigorously, emphasizing the moment where no one talks where I can only sense the tension rising. Rob clenches his fists, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before opening again to lock on me.

"Sorry, sorry," I hurriedly try to soften, dropping the game, unable to move because I don't know how to comfort him. "That's not what I meant."

I feel like Rob's far away. He threateningly advances on me and I swear he's going to attack me, so I raise my arms to my face.

The hit doesn't come.

I lower my defence to see that little boy from the paparazzi photo, unable to meet my gaze, his whole world pulled out from under him.

The microwave dings and I can't look over even though the smell is almost overwhelming.

"Dick, I didn't…," I start, debating trying to take another step forward, but my attempt is stopped by him looking up at me. "I mean, I know that must've been awful. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"No," he whispers, back from wherever he was. "You weren't."

The room is filled with a sense of ugly memories and emotions. I ruined everything. He just wanted to be alone today and I come in and stir things up.

Thinking back to me and him in my room playing Mario Kart, I comment, "You seem...okay. Mostly."

"That's good." He's looking at his feet. Standing there, in the middle of the room, all by himself, wallowing in negativities.

Without hesitation, I close the distance and wrap him in a hug. He tenses, but relaxes after a second. "I'm sorry," I say honestly, releasing after he gives me an odd pat on the back.

"Your parents are alive." He gives a sorry shrug. "You just weren't thinking."

I peek at the microwave. Oooh, hot pockets. I spot the empty box from here. They have to be in the fridge.

"So... can I cook those hot pockets?" Hopefully, my randomness cheers him up and doesn't make things worse.

"Sure, Wally." No emotional response, tread carefully.

"Okay." I haltingly go over, searching for the hot pockets in the fridge. Taking the popcorn out, I plop one in the microwave and set the timer, hearing it start up again.

I can't shake the feeling in my gut, so I say, "Look man, I'm really so-"

"It's fine, okay? Apology accepted, Wally West." He forcefully inquires, "You said you wanted to play Immortal Tactics?"

* * *

A few minutes later, in which no words have been spoken, we're both perched at the foot of his bed, holding playstation controllers, staring at the 'start' screen, the solemn theme music playing dramatically.

I have the hot pockets on a deluxe paper plate on my lap. The popcorn's between us and I'm trying to give Rob the opportunity to eat most of it before I dive in, but he's just kind of nibbling it.

Without a word, Rob sets up the game, selecting a character for himself and a stage without stopping to give me any sort of introduction. I just manage to select a character (a skinnier guy with a huge sword) before he presses 'begin battle'.

The screen displays a countdown and a woman's voice announces, "3, 2, 1, FIGHT!" Rob's character, which I guess is some sort of ninja guy, jumps from his side of the screen to mine and viciously takes me down. I button smash. My only achievement being figuring out the main attack button, I die really quickly.

I totally deserve that.

The next round is the same, but at the beginning, Rob doesn't attack me as much. I swing my sword at him a couple of times, trying out different attack combos. I realize too late that he was having me feed his ability bar to allow him to use his special move, which easily takes out the rest of my health bar.

"To use your special move, you have to hit both L2 and R2 buttons at the same time," Rob finally says, leaning over to show me which buttons those are. "The trick is to use as many combos as you can and attack quickly."

"I can do that," I smirk.

After he brings up a combo list for my character on the screen, I actually start having fun. While my character -Ianril, I guess he's called- deals quick attacks at a longer range than Rob's character. Unfortunately, his character's able to make up for it with his ability to get close and deal extreme damage combos that ultimately allow him to win over and over.

"You need to take advantage of Ianril's medium range attacks to keep me from getting close!" Rob grins and I instantly feel brighter.

"I'm trying!" I smile before managing to dodge an attack that would've killed me. I attempt to copy some combos from the list and get slayed anyway.

After the match, I ask, "Hey, can I use your bathroom?"

"Yeah," he allows, setting down his controller. "Okay, you go out into the hall and take a left, and then the third door down on your right is the guest bathroom."

"Thanks, man."

"No problem," Rob replies, pulling the popcorn bowl up onto his lap, picking at it.

This probably buys me five to ten minutes to find the Batcave. Go! I nonchalantly sashay out the door, watching Rob as I depart. He gives me a weird look, but continues doing whatever to that popcorn.

I search the house as fast as I can, touching everything that I suspect could be an entrance to the Batcave.

 _That statue?_

 _Hidden button?_

 _Nope._

 _behind that painting?_

 _downstairs_

 _Under the dining table?_

 _concealed trapdoor?_

 _Nope._

 _Hello, Alfred the Butler._

 _Featherduster_

 _How long does it take to dust?_

 _sniff_

 _mmmm dinner_

 _Maybe that shield on the stairs?_

 _Ooops…_

 _How does this go back on?_

 _Nope._

 _library? book lever?_

 _Yes?_

 _checking checking checking_

 _shelves_

 _Nope._

When I decelerate, I find myself in a room with an ebony grand piano, grandfather clock, bookcase, and a seating area with a wine bar. It strikes me as unusual, because the wearing on the floor suggests that this room is trafficked a lot. Somehow, Batman and Robin don't strike me as piano playing types. I tap a key and then end up playing 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star' because that's basically the only thing I remember how to play from piano lessons. Then I play it again with accompanying chords. After a moment where I consider giving up and going back up to Rob's room, I catch a couple of keys in the low register that are smudged more than the rest. After noting which keys they are, I recognize them as a variation of an F chord, which I play on the smudged keys. Mechanisms inside the piano click into place.

A soft wooden groan comes from behind me and I twist around to investigate. The grandfather clock has opened, revealing a fireman's pole. I come to the realization that my mouth is open and I close it. So cool! This is just like the Chamber of Secrets. I'm doing it.

I slide down the pole, trying really hard not to go too fast. After what must've been three stories, I hit the ground a little too hard, painful tingles shooting up my legs. Luckily, I easily shake it off.

Hey! That's a giant dinosaur! Not kidding; there's green T-Rex staring right at me from a lower landing.

There are metal platforms built right into what is a literal cave. With literal bats. It's literally a batcave. I guess I was expecting it to just be nicknamed the 'Batcave' as a super secret code name and be a very high tech Batman base. But nope.

From my position, I can see that I'm on one of the higher platforms looking down at the rest of the cave. Off on one side is an impressive series of screens, underneath, a bunch of fun-looking buttons. Another section looks like a garage, with a lot of shiny black vehicles. What about an armory or a forensic lab? Bats has to have those too!

When I speed around a corner, hoping to find a way to get down there, I get a facefull of silky web. Wrong way. I spit and brush it off. Ick. At least I'm not afraid of spiders like some redheads (I'm talking about you, Ron Weasley).

Wait, if Rob has black hair and lost both his parents, does that mean he's Harry Potter?

Taking stairs down to the lower level, I find a giant penny and Joker card. And then I come across what can only be a trophy room. Wow. It's like my box of souvenirs at home, but bigger. I need my own souvenir room.

As I think about the little generator I got as a souvenir on my first mission with Rob, it occurs to me. This might be the end. I lean against the metal door frame and slip down to the floor. I might have lost a friend just now. I've betrayed his trust, lied to him. And before that? I brought up his dead parents. From showing up at his house with a nosebleed to sitting here in the Batcave. I've ruined everything. I stare at my feet splayed out in front as the cave collapses around me.

"Wallace Rudolph West!" Rob's voice is amplified and bounces throughout the Batcave.

I peek out from around the corner. Rob's speed-walking towards me. I grin because he doesn't look angry at all, more amused and impressed than anything. I banter, "How do you know my full name, Richard…" Why don't I know his middle name? "um... Clive Grayson?"

Rob bristles at the return of Clive, looking down at me.

"I told you not to go looking for the Batcave," he protests, throwing out a hand to help me up.

"You did not," I recall, accepting his help to get me to a stand. "You just told me there were secret passages and that you weren't going to show them to me! But I found one myself!" I spin in a circle to look enthusiastically as I ask, "Where's the Batmobile?"

Rob groans, blank faced.

"Why do you name everything after bats anyway?" I ask offhandedly. "Bats aren't very scary."

Rob's groaning intensifies, blank face plus face palm.

"You've got the Batcave, Batmobile, Batman," I count them off on my fingers. "What's next? Batdarts?"

"They're called Batarangs," Rob informs.

"Psh," I dismiss. "You're totally making that up."

Rob gives me a mildly skeptical eyebrow raise.

"You're not making that up. Seriously? Where's your imagination? What do you call that?" I lean over the railing, pointing at the collection of screens and the many buttons underneath. "The Batputer?"

"That's just the main computer," he chortles.

"That's even worse!" I rant. "You guys are boring! How do you decide what gets a bat name and what doesn't? Why are you Robin? You should be the Batkick!"

"Oh, you really want to talk about originality, Kid Flash? Where's the imagination with that one?

"Good point," I concede. "Take me to the Batmobile!"

Rob dramatically sighs before the corners of his mouth curl up, "To your left and down the stairs on the tarmac."

In practically no time, I'm right next to it. So familiar it's like I just saw it a couple weeks ago. Oh, wait, I did. "Man! It looks even cooler up close! Look at those rims and the paint job and the custom detailing!" Calm down, your geek is showing.

Rob's making his way down the stairs to join me. "I didn't have you pegged for a mechanic."

"Hey. Even a peasant can recognize art," I retort, gesturing to the car like a model. "Do you think we can drive it?"

"Of course not. It's not mine."

Don't want to piss off the Batman, so I ask him, "Then what's yours?"

Rob points to a motorcycle. "That."

Then I speed skip over to the corner where it's parked. "Ooo. The Batcycle, right? Or is it the Robincycle because it's yours?" I smirk. "Nice and shiny. Looks kind of small and zippy, like you."

"It's from my mom," he whispers.

"Excuse me?" He didn't get the Robincycle from his mom.

He sighs, pocketing his hands in his sweatshirt."Robin. My name. It's from my mom." The little bit he shared floats out like a memory that's free of its burden, released comfortably. It feels different than when I mentioned his parents before. Almost like he wants me to know.

Things just got serious again, so I try to lighten it. "And she didn't pick something a little more intimidating? Like, I don't know...Shark? Dragon?"

Batman and Shark. Batman and Dragon?

Rob snorts. "Nah."

"Come on, even the average woodchuck is scarier than a robin."

Batman and Woodchuck.

"Oh, wait, this is the same woman who named her firstborn son Dick. Never mind."

He crosses his arms. "Pot, kettle, Wallace Rudolph."

No! Not the cursed middle name!

I cough, trying to act distinguished before just falling apart into hysterics. "I'll have you know that Rudolph is a highly respectable name."

Rob starts humming 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer'.

I elbow him in the gut.

* * *

Being the wonderful little bird he is, Rob keeps me for dinner and lets me eat Alfred the Butler's banquet of salmon. All of it. Alfred the Butler seems pleased that I enjoy his food, but after my fifth helping, he becomes more annoyed.

Afterwards, Rob and I watch a movie in a home theatre. A. Home. Theatre. Only rich people. But it was great to have a large screen and I got into the movie a lot more than I usually do.

"Cool guys don't look at explosions," I shout, making an explosion with my popcorn bowl.

"No, you idiot, you can't die!" Rob and I dramatically sob when our favorite character sacrifices himself to save the world.

It's dark out by the time I leave, but my parents typically don't worry. That much. On second thought, I should get out of here quick.

After giving Rob a heart-felt dramatic goodbye, I run into Bruce Wayne, who seems to be returning from something business-like. Giving him a salute, I say, "So, you're Batman. How's that working out? Having trouble teaching science classes as well?"

"No."

Totally a Mr. Shoger response. Good disguise, sir.


	9. Doesn't Take Orders Well (at all)

**Dick Grayson**

It's kind of a gloomy Saturday afternoon. I may have looked up the weather in Central City and noticed a bit unhappily that it's sunny and a balmy sixty-five degrees there. Wally is a lucky son-of-a-gun.

After yesterday's events, I'm planning to take today easy. Bruce got called into his office for some sort of emergency stock meeting, so it's just me and the Netflix queue today. I guess Alfred's around, but he's in one of his spring cleaning moods and is too busy dusting and what-not to play me at chess.

The doorbell rings halfway through season two of Teen Wolf, and I wait about thirty seconds for Alfred to answer it. When it rings again, I figure he's upstairs and reluctantly heave myself upright. Signing for a package is about all I have the energy for today.

I pull the front door open and am greeted with a goggled Wally West in civies, bleeding and out of breath like he ran all the way here.

"It's Bruce Wayne, isn't it?" he says gleefully, swiping at a stream of blood trickling steadily from his nose.

I consider slamming the door in his face, but decide just in time that that would just be adding insult to injury. "What the heck happened?" I ask, and then remember that it's Wally: the guy who I landed on me in a warehouse and who picks fights with football players and criminals like it's nothing. "Actually, never mind, I don't want to know."

"No, no, man, you really do," Wally insists, pushing the goggles up onto his forehead.

I'm trying not to think about what sort of disaster he could have triggered. I was having a nice day. "No, I really-"

He strikes a ridiculous pose, arms outstretched. "Nothing can keep me away, Robbie!" he cackles, and then tacks on, "Not even your murderous fence."

"What did you do to the fence?" I groan, eyeing the section I can see from the porch. No noticeable damage, but Bruce has a _lot_ of fence. God only knows where Wally broke in.

"The gate was locked," he explains sheepishly, dabbing his nose again. "I phased through the bars. But it is, isn't it? It's totally Bruce Wayne."

He doesn't have to say who 'it' is. Google is both a blessing and a curse.

There isn't any point trying to deny it. "Yes, it's Bruce Wayne," I say, still wondering what phasing through a fence has to do with a nosebleed. "Can I help you with something else?" Maybe a moist towelette or something? An ice pack?

Wally peeks over my shoulder and fidgets on the porch. "Do you have a PS3?"

That wasn't exactly what I was expecting. "Um."

"Because I reeeeally want to play Immortal Tactics." He bounces a little on the soles of his shoes, referring to a recently-released player-versus-player game. How he knows I own it, I have no idea. Maybe he and Bruce should talk and compare sleuthing notes.

"Yes, I have a playstation," I sigh, resignedly realizing that he wants to hang out. We'll have to get him cleaned up before he drips on the carpet.

I hear footsteps behind me and hope that I might be saved from having to deal with this. Wally's eyes light up eagerly. "Is Wayne home?"

"Master Wayne is at work, I'm afraid," Alfred says over my shoulder, almost whacking me in the face with his feather duster. He gives Wally a critical look I've seen him use on Bruce more than once when he gets a particularly ridiculous injury and sighs, "I'll go fetch the ice compress."

Wally looks confused, and I figure introductions are in order. "Wally, this is Alfred, our butler." It sounds pretentious coming out of my mouth, and I duck a little when I gesture between the two of them. "Alfred, Wally."

Alfred's hand curls at his side, as if he had debated offering it for a handshake before noticing that both of Wally's hands are bloody. He offers a polite inclination of his head instead before leaving for the kitchen.

Wally didn't notice the hesitation and doesn't look put off in the slightest. On the contrary, he looks absolutely fascinated and exclaims the minute we're alone, "You have a _butler?_ "

I resist the urge to stuff my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. It's not the same one I wore yesterday, and I hook my fingers in the little hole in the sleeve that differentiates it. "Yeah," I sigh. I know the contrast between me and Alfred must have been a bit jarring, given Alfred's pressed suit and my ratty sweater, but Wally doesn't look confused at all. I have to give him a bit of credit for that-he just looks ridiculously excited.

"Holy crap!" Wally takes the ice compress over my shoulder when Alfred reappears, but never takes his eyes off of mine. "Can I see the Batcave?"

Alfred winces next to me, and I rephrase my resigned "sure, why not" for a hesitant "Um...maybe?"

"Does Master Wayne know about this?" Alfred asks, in that same crisp tone he used when I accidentally dropped a pitcher of lemonade onto the floor several years ago.

I have a different answer for him this time, thank goodness. "Yes, he does." I incline my chin in Wally's direction. "This was the friend I was visiting yesterday. I don't know why he's _here_." I mean heaven forbid I have a nice day alone with my Netflix. On the other hand, at least it's Wally. I can be okay with Wally, I guess.

"I just really want to play Immortal Tactics," Wally pleads, widening his eyes like a lonely puppy. "And see the Batcave."

"This is all highly unprecedented," Alfred says, which is about as close as the man will get to complaining.

"But it's okay, Alfred," I soothe. "I got this."

He sighs, and if we were alone I wouldn't have put it past him to thwack me with the feather duster for interrupting his cleaning schedule. "Will you be entertaining your guest in your room, Master Dick?"

"Uum," I stall, trying not to notice the way Wally is practically vibrating on the porch and chanting "Batcave Batcave Batcave" under his breath.

"Yes," I say firmly. "We will be in my room."

Wally's entire frame slumps forward, bottom lip curling into a pout. "But Roooooob."

I roll my eyes and step back, admitting him into the house. He hops over the doorstep, and thankfully the blood flow has been reduced to the point where I don't think it's very likely he'll drip on the rug.

"It's not something I can just show you," I explain. Of the entire Justice League, I think maybe two people have been granted access to the Batcave. It's not something I can just show friends who come over. If I ever had friends come over. Maybe I can. I guess I never asked.

Wally manages to half-articulate a protest before catching sight of the (dusty) chandelier-Alfred obviously hasn't gotten to it yet. "Whoa," he breathes, spinning in a slow circle to take in the vestibule. "Your house is really big."

I'm not entirely sure what to say. I remember being ushered inside the front hall with Bruce shortly after the adoption and being similarly awed by the antiques and relics. Now they just seem normal, and I have to remember that most people don't have multiple suits of armor standing guard in the hallway or marble statues decorating corners. Normal people have goldfish.

"Would you be interested in some of the house's history?" Alfred asks, subtly trying to herd Wally towards one of the bathrooms.

"Maybe another time, Alfred," I cut him off, directing Wally into the half-bathroom closest to the stairs. He looks briefly confused by the gold sink handles, and I reach across him to turn on the hot water while Alfred watches approvingly.

"My room's just up the stairs. I'll wait for you around the corner," I say, hooking my foot around the door to close it for him.

"Do be sure to use the linens on the _right_ side of the sink, Mister West," Alfred commands. I frown, trying to remember if I ever told Alfred Wally's last name. Maybe Bruce did.

I look up just in time to catch that slightly smug look he gets right before he checkmates me, and I hold back a sigh. Forget Bruce and Batman, Alfred is the real detective in this house. I totally got played into this little superhero playdate. With any other man I would have been annoyed, but, listening to the water run in the bathroom and remembering Wally's eagerness to play video games with me, I can't help but be a little amused.

Alfred is amused too, it seems, if the little flourish he gives with his feather duster as he walks down the hall is any indication.

* * *

"I think I used the linens on the left side," Wally admits a few minutes later when he reappears, looking much better without the blood dribbling down his chin. "Is Alfred the Butler going to kill me?"

"No, he's not going to kill you," I reassure him. He'll just glare in harmless yet vaguely menacing way. I refrain from elaborating, and turn to lead Wally up the stairs. "C'mon."

"You really live here?" Wally says disbelievingly, eyes wide and awed as he peeks into every room we pass.

"Yeah." I know the first impression this place makes. The front rooms are more museum than house, and I say a bit defensively, "A lot of the front rooms are just for show. It gets less stuck-up the farther in you get."

"I guess..." Wally pauses to eye a bronze shield displayed behind the staircase railing, and then looks at me daringly. "What would happen if I broke something?"

I suddenly have an all-too-clear mental image of Wally using the shield like a frisbee. I don't entertain the thought for long and raise my eyebrow. "Alfred would toss you out on the sidewalk with the rest of the compost." Wally must have caught enough of a glimpse of the steel in Alfred's eyes to believe me, because he gulps nervously and quickly drops his hands to his sides, impish thoughts successfully extinguished.

He walks along in silence for a while until we come to a staircase landing and he asks, "How many floors are there anyway?"

The question sounds genuine, not like he's just trying to fill the silence, so I turn around to answer honestly. "Four including the basement."

"How many including the Batcave?"

He looks so eager I decide to humor him. "Seven."

Wally's eyes light up, and I'm quick to say, "Stop looking at me like that, I'm not going to show you."

"You _say_ that," Wally sing-songs. "But your eyes say differently."

I make a disdainful noise in the back of my throat and stomp up the next flight of stairs.

"I was _kidding_ ," Wally shouts behind me. " _C'mon_ , Rob! Don't be like that!"

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at his reaction, and we arrive at the top of the stairs. "My room's this way."

I start to lead him in the right direction, and Wally takes it as an invitation to start asking more questions.

"So are there, like, secret corridors that lead to the Batcave all over the house or what?"

I turn around to see him freeze, hand half-raised like he was going to knock on the paneling in search of a door.

"They're _secret_ , Wally," I say, channeling my inner Bruce and trying to sound firm.

"Yeah, but _hypothetically_...?" he wheedles.

I cross my arms. "Wally."

"Okay, okay," he concedes. Robin: 1. Kid Flash: 0.

* * *

I think Alfred would have been affronted that I didn't clean up my room for company, and I admit it's a bit messier than usual. The last few patrols had ended much later than usual, and I hadn't had the energy to do much more than pull the curtains and collapse into bed. I'm a little self-conscious of the unmade bed and untidiness now, but Wally doesn't comment on it. He just takes in the room with the same enthusiasm he had for the rest of the house and then zeroes in on the corner. "You have a microwave in your room?" he bursts out.

I gather that this is not exactly common. "Uh. Yeah. For heat packs and stuff," I explain, subtly kicking a pair of boxers underneath the bed to cover the first aid kit. Not all of us have super fast regenerative systems.

"You have a microwave in your room and you don't use it for food?" Wally looks personally offended by the idea and strikes the pose of a disapproving parent, complete with his hands on his hips and his chin tipped down to glare at me.

"I could make some popcorn?" I offer. Choose your battles. Robin: 1. Kid Flash: 1.

"Why don't you!" he concurs. I toss a packet inside the microwave and press the popcorn button.

The packet makes a few, hypnotic revolutions before slowly starting to puff up. I can't quite look away, but Wally trails off, wandering over to the entertainment corner and crouching down to inspect my video games. He swats a Gotham Knights shirt off of the cabinet with a friendly familiarity before pulling the doors open and running his finger along the backs of titles. He finds Immortal Tactics pretty quickly, and asks lightly as he reads the back, "So you used to be an acrobat?"

I nod. This, at least, I can talk about. "Yep," I say, preparing to give a condensed and somewhat romanticized version of circus life. Wally seems like the sort who could appreciate some of my weirder stories.

But then he says, "Was it a big change going from that sort of lifestyle to this one?" and all the air seems to get sucked from the room. Something in the pit of my stomach drops, and it's like I'm standing on the edge of the trapeze platform again, staring down at the incredible fall before me, unable to process how fundamentally everything- _everything_ -about my life had just changed.

I'm aware of still being in my bedroom, of Wally's eyes widening in concern, but it's like I'm watching myself from behind like a spectator. Breathing is hard.

"You mean was it a big change when my parents were murdered?" I hear myself snarl. "Yeah Wally. That's a pretty big change."

The first kernel pops with a sound like a gunshot, and air knifes through my lungs when I suck in a breath. Wally visibly flinches, mouth dropping open.

"Sorry," he whispers, hands rising a little at his sides. The staccato cracks echo behind me, interrupting half-formed thoughts, disrupting any hope I had for refocusing.

"Sorry," he repeats desperately, words almost drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears. "That's not what I meant."

Falling and falling and me watching them hit the ground and _breaking-_ and that horrible, stomach-wrenching feeling that came with not being able to scream or cry or do anything but _know_. Know that nothing was ever going to be okay again. Nothing was ever going to be okay again.

 _A big change?_ the reporters had asked. _Was it a big change?_

I can hear my heart pounding in my chest and am dimly aware that I've stopped breathing entirely. I don't remember taking those two steps towards him, or taking an aggressive stance like I'm about to kick his nose in. For a horrible moment I debate it, and then the buzzing in my ears starts to fade and I slump forward, looking down at the floor.

The microwave dings, shrill tone enough to pull me back to myself. I focus on breathing and slowly uncurling my fingers, noticing the red crescents on my palms where I'd clenched too hard.

I can almost feel my nervous system shift back into parasympathetic mode when I take a few deep breaths, and I belatedly identify the past few minutes as some sort of panic attack. I hadn't had one of those in years.

I feel shredded.

Wally looks apologetic and scared and I instantly berate myself for acting like I did. It was years ago. Get a grip. Pull it together.

"Dick, I didn't..." Wally half-articulates helplessly, and I look up suddenly at the use my name. He hadn't stuttered, and he's paused midstep like he's scared of coming any closer. "I mean," he continues softly. "I know that must've been awful. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"No, you weren't," I say quietly. He hadn't known. How could he have known? I was just being stupid. I reacted normally to comments like that every other day. Every senator and investor Bruce ever introduced me to had said something to effect of how sorry they were and how they understood how wretched I must feel. I learned to brush them off, ignore them. Those questions barely had any connection to my parents anymore, and I answered them cordially and politely. Bruce was the only one to notice that I didn't mean a word that I said. I always figured he had answered his share of questions in his day.

Wally was different. He had cared. He hadn't understood, but he didn't pretend to either. And he had asked honestly. Kindly. Like he was curious about the answer instead of just faking conversation with Bruce's charity case before talking about their next big investment opportunity.

Wally chews on his lower lip, still shooting me anxious looks like he's worried I'll collapse. Light-headedness from lack of oxygen aside, I don't think I'm likely to fall over. I just want to crawl under the bed or something and pretend the last five minutes didn't happen.

"You seem...okay," he says softly. I bite back a snort, and he amends, "Mostly."

"That's good." My voice sounds unsteady even to me. Robin: -1. Kid Flash: 2. I am aware of my failings. I can function around them. It works for Bruce and it will work for me as well.

I'm looking down at the floor, and don't register Wally taking those two steps forward until his arms are around me. I jump a little. Bruce is not a hugger. Alfred is not a hugger.

Maybe Wally is.

"I'm sorry," he says earnestly. I nod into his shoulder, and give him an awkward pat on the back when I don't quite know what to do with my hands.

"Your parents are alive," I explain, trying not to sound bitter when he steps back. Robin: -2. Kid Flash: 2. "You just weren't thinking."

Wally gives me an odd look I don't quite know how to interpret, and then occupies himself with a bag of hot pockets he found in the fridge. He bustles around me, pouring the popcorn into a bowl and pressing buttons on the microwave. I see his shoulders tense, and he takes a huge breath before whirling around to face me. "Look man, I'm really so-"

"It's fine, okay?" I say firmly. "Apology accepted, Wally West." I step past him. "You said you wanted to play Immortal Tactics?"

* * *

Under any other circumstance, I would be happy that Wally has managed to stay quiet this long, but this is just getting ridiculous. I have messed up profoundly, and now he's being very careful about what he does around me.

I roll my eyes and click through the title screen and subsequent menus as quickly as I can, barely giving him a chance to select a character. The one he ends up picking is decent-he might have a shot if he had any idea what he was doing. I have him beat in seconds, realize pretty quickly that no matter how much better it made me feel it was still spiteful, and slow down in the next round. I purposefully leave openings for him to try different attacks, allowing him a glimmer of hope before I slay him with a special move.

Wally huffs angrily, and I'm happy to have elicited a response other than pity. Robin: 1, Kid Flash: 2. This isn't over yet.

"To use your special move, you have to hit both L2 and R2 buttons at the same time," I explain, leaning across the popcorn bowl to point the buttons out to him. I'm pretty sure he only owns a Wii; no wonder he's confused. "The trick is to use as many combos as you can and attack quickly."

He grins. "I can do that." Robin: 2. Kid Flash: 2. Now we're getting somewhere.

We're both laughing by the end of the next battle. I try to explain the finer strategies of Immortal Tactics, but he can't quite execute them properly, and I end up killing him anyway. I think he appreciates that I never let him win, and he's determinedly button-mashing with some success before I kill him again. This fight, like the one before it, was much better than the last. He'll be my equal before he knows it.

"Hey, can I use your bathroom?" he asks breezily, tossing his controller onto the pile of clothes in front of him and stretching.

"Yeah." I twist around to look at the door leading to my personal bathroom, then think better of it. "Okay, you go out the hall and take a left, and then the third door down on your right is the"-clean-"guest bathroom."

"Thanks man." He rolls onto his feet with an easy grace I associate more with Kid Flash than Wally West, and practically bounces out into the hall. I guess he really had to go.

I cradle the half-empty popcorn bowl in my lap, playing with the food more than eating it. In all honesty, I'm still coming down from whatever reaction I had had earlier. I'm not hungry and would like nothing more than to curl up and take a nap. Maybe I could convince Wally to watch a movie instead of playing more Immortal Tactics, if only so I could hold onto my perfect record.

I know that sitting like this is not a good idea. It was one of the first things Bruce taught me-distraction is key. Sitting alone by yourself and doing nothing just leads to ruminative thinking. I check the time and realize that I've been sitting here for almost seven minutes.

Does it really take seven minutes for a speedster to use the bathroom?

The most logical solution, of course, is that he just got lost. If he turned the wrong way coming out of the door, he could have ended up on the opposite side of the house, and he does seem to have problems telling his right from his left.

On the other hand, this is _Wally_. I smirk and push myself to my feet. The guy has made a habit of being places he shouldn't be, from the porch today to the football field yesterday to under my feet a few weeks ago.

 _Wait._

I pause with my hand on the door, and then burst out into the hall, sprinting for the nearest entrance to the Batcave.

* * *

" _Wallace Rudolph West!_ " I shout, landing hard on the soles of my feet after jumping the last few yards of the pole.

His vivid hair pokes around a corner from a lower height than I anticipated, mouth agape in fake offense. "How do you know my full name, Richard...um," he flounders, and I grin smugly until he musters up, " _Clive_ Grayson!"

John, idiot. You just had to go for the most common name in America. Robin: 2. Kid Flash: 3.

"I told you not to go looking for the Batcave," I chide, offering a hand to help pull him up.

"You did not!" he says indignantly, using my weight as a counter to haul himself to his feet. "You just told me there were secret passages and that you weren't going to show them to me! But I found one myself! Where's the Batmobile?"

I can't believe he's older than me. Wriggling out on a loophole like that, it's...kind of genius.

"Why do you name everything after bats anyway?" Wally asks brightly, pirouetting in a circle. "Bats aren't very scary."

Never mind.

He starts ticking things off on his fingers. "You've got the Batcave, Batmobile, Batman...What's next, Batdarts?"

"They're called Batarangs," I sigh, well-aware that I just made his point. Robin: 2. Kid Flash: 4.

He scoffs at me. "You're making that up." I just raise an eyebrow, and his eyes go wide as a slow grin starts to curl at the corners of his mouth. "You're not making that up," he intones mournfully. "Seriously! Where's your imagination? What do you call that?!" He almost launches himself over a railing and jabs a finger at the giant blue screen in the workshop area. "The Batputer?"

"That's just the main computer," I chuckle. Robin: 3. Kid Flash: 4.

"That's even worse!" Wally bursts out. "You guys are boring! How do you decide what gets a bat name and what doesn't?" He spins around to point at me. "Why are you Robin? You should be the Batkick!" Robin: 3. Kid Flash: 5.

I snort, propping my hands on my hips. "You really want to talk about originality, _Kid Flash?_ Where's the imagination with that one?" Robin: 4. Kid Flash: 5.

"...Good point," he admits, alacrity not diminished in the slightest as he demands, "Take me to the Batmobile!"

I sigh dramatically, faking hesitation before tipping my head to the side. "To your left and down the stairs on the tarmac."

Wally woops and darts away, actually following directions for once. I can hear him groan lustfully from where I stand.

"I didn't have you pegged for a mechanic," I tease, listening to him sing the Batmobile's praises.

"Hey," Wally snaps. "Even a peasant can recognize art. Do you think we can drive it?"

"Of course not," I say rationally. "It's not mine."

Wally responds better to this explanation than just a straight up 'no.' Robin: 5. Kid Flash: 5. "Then what's yours?"

I point to the motorcycle. "That."

I don't even see him move. It's the frame-skip trick again, where I blink and it's like he teleported. "Oooh," he coos. "The Batcycle, right?" He notices the paint job and waggles his eyebrows at me. "Or is it the Robincycle because it's yours? Nice and shiny. Looks kind of small and zippy, like you." Robin: 5. Kid Flash: 6.

"It's from my mom," I say quietly.

Wally's head snaps up. "Excuse me?"

I sigh, caving into habit and stuffing my hands into my pockets. "Robin. My name. It's from my mom." It feels nice to say it, like something that was ripped is quietly stitching itself back together.

Wally grapples with that for a minute, before saying lightly, "And she didn't pick something a little more intimidating? Like, I don't know...Shark? Dragon?"

I think about flying on the trapeze and shake my head. "Nah."

"Come on, even the average woodchuck is scarier than a robin. Oh wait," Wally sniggers. "This is the same woman who named her first son Dick. Never mind."

Robin: 5. Kid Flash: 7.

I cross my arms again. "Pot, kettle, Wallace Rudolph."

Robin: 6. Kid Flash: 7.

"I'll have you know that Rudolph is a highly respectable name," Wally splutters. I start humming Christmas carols, and he whacks me in the ribs.

Robin: 7. Kid Flash: 7.

I'll take it.

* * *

Wally ends up staying for dinner. He eats about five times as much as I do, but I'm starting to accept this as a simple fact of life. We end up watching a movie too, but Wally's energy is infectious, and I end up making just as many loud comments as he does. We throw popcorn at the TV when our favorite character dies, and I try to remember when the last time I honestly goofed off like this was. I have a hard time coming up with anything.

It's almost ten by the time Wally finally admits he should be getting home. I show him to the front door, and he pulls his goggles over his eyes before clapping my shoulder.

"See you later, Dick," he smirks.

"Anytime, Reindeer Games," I fire back. I had lost track of scores once we hit double-digits.

"No, seriously Rob, this was fun. Maybe I'll give you a heads up next time though?"

I pretend to think about it. "Nah."

The door opens before Wally can do it, and Bruce steps through, briefcase in hand. If he's startled to see Wally here, he doesn't show it.

Wally doesn't look intimidated either. "So you're Batman," he says cheekily. "How's that working out? Having trouble teaching science classes as well?"

I groan and drop my face into my hands. I had forgotten about his conspiracy theories.

Bruce's eyes flick over to me before meeting Wally's evenly. He smiles blithely. "No."

The look Bruce gives me informs me that I have a lot of explaining to do, but Wally looks like Bruce just told him Christmas was coming early and sprints out the door, disappearing into a blur the minute he clears the porch.

Alfred is at Bruce's shoulder almost immediately, taking his coat off and his briefcase to put in the hall closet. "I thought I'd leave the gates open this time," Alfred says to me. "For your friend."

I grin and scuff a little at the rug. Friend sounds nice.


	10. Robin vs Hobos

**Wally West**

I'm in a park. In Gotham City. On a swingset. At 9:30 pm. Holding a can of my dad's beer.

The only light nearby is a streetlamp from behind some greenery, so I can hardly see more than shadows. I've been steadily rocking myself on the swing, rolling toe to heel on my feet as the chains complain. The rust on the swing's chain itches my sweaty palm, but I don't want to let go.

Bringing the beer to my mouth, I almost gag on the sharp smell before chugging the rest of the can. To be honest, I hate the taste. It's bitter and I'm kind of choking it down. But, I don't want to think about…

Glancing at my collection of four empty beer cans at my feet that I've accumulated in the past seven minutes, I don't... Feel any better. I feel completely…in control. It's almost worse.

I look over to Rob's silhouette on the swing next to me, who seems to be forcing down a can for my sake.

"Rob?" I ask, leaning on one side of the swing, so that I'm closer to him. "Do you think maybe I can't get drunk because of the metabolism thing?"

He's wearing a black jacket over a gray zip up hoodie and he has taken off his shades to gaze intensely at the can. He responds with, "How many calories are there in beer anyway?"

I can just barely see his can, but it's true, the can actually doesn't have a nutrition facts label. "Weird," I comment, letting the swing take me back. "It doesn't have a calorie count."

Rob cackles hysterically, making me jump. "Nope," he agrees, looking at me out of the corner of his eye, still cackling.

Unsure of how many beers he's actually had, I give him a small chuckle, half-amused, half-concerned. "Are you drunk?"

"Yep!" he cheers, gripping the swing's chains and trying to propel himself, but failing miserably.

"Congrats," I cheer back sarcastically, flicking the tab on the can, enjoying the noise.

Rob looks like he's struggling with some bit of information, until he snaps his fingers and points to me. "It might be because you're really fast," he informs.

"What?" I lift my head, confused.

"That you're immune to the effects of..." he struggles for word choice. "Intoxication," he whispers.

I smile uneasily. "Okay? That's what I was saying."

"Great minds think alike!" Rob exclaims enthusiastically, jumps up from the swing, and does a shaky little dance. He drops his sunglasses and he either doesn't notice or is too drunk to care.

"Okay," I sigh, laughing a little at his energy.

"You seem sad," Rob states. He stops his dance right in front of me.

"No," I argue.

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes," Rob presses.

Mainly to stop this cycle, I say, "Well…"

Rob takes my reluctance as an invitation to sit on my lap. I grunt, dropping the beer can as I rebalance on the swing with the added weight. He strikes the pose of a psychologist, hand on his chin, a quizzical look spreading across his face as he suggests, "Tell me your troubles."

"What?" I say, more shocked than anything. Rob isn't really the cuddly type.

Rob greets my befuddlement with an unnerving fixation on my face. "Your eyes are really green."

"Stop it," I moan. I break eye contact, playing with a button on my shirt. When I look back up, he hasn't moved, still staring. "What do you want?"

"Love!" He confesses, throwing his arms around me.

"What the-!" I grab onto the chains to stop us from falling backward. Way too cuddly.

"Shhhhhhhhhh!" he says softly. Without letting go of the embrace, he holds up a finger to my lips. "Now. Tell me your secrets."

"You're really creeping me out," I admit.

"Shhhhhhh. Not that." He finally lets go and just sort of sits there on my lap. "The other thing."

It feels like an animal is clawing at my guts, when I say to him, looking off, "You don't need to know."

"What if I want to know?" Rob asks, trying to see what I'm looking at.

"I don't want to." His position is making my leg fall asleep, I shift slightly and Rob does nothing to stop himself from falling to the ground.

His eyes grow wide and start watering."You don't trust me? After everything?"

"No, it's not that." Now the clawing's more like ripping.

Rob springs up, grasping my t-shirt. "Tell me," he demands with something in his eyes that's probably just drunkenness.

"I don't want you to have to worry about it," I confess, imagining what he would do or even if he could do anything.

"I can take it." He shrugs from the ground, now sitting cross-legged. "I worry about a lot of things anyway."

The ripping turns into shredding and I almost yell, but it comes out as harsh instead, "Stop it. No." The funny look on Rob's face is enough for me to smile and say, "No. But are you okay?"

Rob stands up like he's about to deliver awe-inspiring news. He professes honestly, "I think I'm drunk, Rudolph."

I roll my eyes. "No, duh."

"Should I take a cold shower?" Rob asks.

"What?"

"Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

"No?" I say. "Isn't that a myth?"

"Maybe," he admits.

* * *

 _'What's your problem, Wally?'_ Lauren's voice rises steadily over the soft wind, weaving through the playground. Remembering her harsh words from earlier today. Her face was focused into pure fury as she launched into an emotional rant. _'You're the most arrogant jerk that I've ever had the displeasure of meeting.'_ I'm a jerk. I hear the echoes of her voice. The twisting in my gut returns. She doesn't like me. My heart sinks down to my feet. _'Seriously, do you ever stop and wonder, 'Hey, I wonder why I don't have friends.' You know why, Wally?_ ' Her curves, her beautiful flowing hair. Her hips. I don't have friends. _'It's because you never stop to care about anyone but yourself._ ' Lauren flips her long honey hair. I don't care about anyone. I'm so selfish.

 _'Wally, you never take anything seriously. If I came up to you and said that I actually do want to go out, which is probably just as likely as the sun falling out of the sky.'_ World ending. The sun drops from it's place in the sky, torching the earth. Flames ignite in my mind, setting my hopes ablaze. I'm unwanted. _'But if I did, you'd just make some stupid remark about my appearance.'_ No. No. No. Whirling thoughts. Would I? _'Now, just tell me I'm wrong.'_ But, it's true. You're right.

 _'Someday your impulsive decisions are really going to get you into some serious crap, Wally.'_ Wally. Impulsive. Crap. I feel like crap. My thoughts are spinning; it's sickening. _'I mean, have you ever heard of thinking before you act?'_ I hear it all the time. Don't you think? I've been trying to be better. _'Come on. That's how you're going to die. You're going to cause your own death.'_ Death. Violent thumping heart against my chest.

' _What about your seemingly harmless flirtations to the majority of the girls at this school?_ ' I'm struck with guilt. Seemingly. Not harmless. _'Have you ever stopped to think how you're affecting them? Oh, don't hurt yourself trying to figure it out.'_ I won't. It hurts. She probably hopes it hurts. _'I'll tell you. They hate you.'_ I thought I loved you. ' _You think you're flattering them, but you're not. It's offensive.'_ I'm offensive. Unflattering. _'No, Wally, I'm not from Tennessee.'_ Stupid. _'I'm not an angel who fell from heaven and I'm fine.'_ Annoying. Hell. Not fine. _'It's annoying and stupid. You're annoying and stupid and offensive.'_

* * *

When I shake it off, I find that I've misplaced a weird black-haired little boy about this high who may or may not be drunk. No, he definitely is.

Rob's wandered off and he's drunk and oh man, this is bad. I've really messed up.

You've made another problem for yourself.

Sliding off the swing, I gather up the cans and dump them in a trash bin. I pick Rob's shades up off the ground, brushing the dirt off of them before putting them in my jacket pocket next to my goggles.

I set off down the street at a normal person jog, searching.

Shouting and grunting echoes off the walls of the first alleyway I pass. Sounds promising.

This alley is witness to one of the weirdest scenes ever. Rob's slow motion punching homeless people. I mean, there are bundled-up people around a fire in a trash can and Rob is moving in slow motion, making sound effects as he weakly punches the men.

One of the hobos see me standing at the mouth of the alley and shouts to me, "If you could stop this kid, that would be great."

"He's insane!" Another one adds.

"Beware the Batman!" Rob shouts, egging a hobo to stand up and face him.

"Dick!" I shout. At the sound of his name, he freezes. "What are you doing?"

Rob points to one of the men like a tattler and announces, "He shoved the other guy and I was avenging him. That's what Batman does! I'm Batman."

I can't help but laugh, "No, no, you're not."

"Fine. You got me," he sighs sadly, shoulders drooping. Then he bursts with intensity, "I'm Robin, the Boy Wonder!" Striking a pose, he attempts a backflip, but ends up in a pile of trash bags near the dumpster. It's so perfect that it might have been intentional.

I turn my attention to the hobos, who are watching this with stupid grins on their faces. "Sorry, guys, he's totally not Batman or Robin."

"Nah, that's alright," a third hobo laughs. "I like impressions."

I smirk. At least this disaster is funny.

I'm rammed into from behind. Stumbling, I just manage not to trip as Rob announces, "I'm the fastest man alive!" I slap my face with my hand, thoroughly amused with Rob's Flash impression. He throws an arm over my shoulders. "And this is my trusty sidekick, Kid Flash."

I snort, trying not to act startled, and explain to the hobos, "He's very drunk."

"See? He's even a ginger." Rob pulls on my hair.

"No, I'm not!" Excuse you, I'm a redhead.

Rob blinks, "Whatever." Then he struts off back towards the street, the hobos roaring with laughter.

With a huge smile on my face, I say, "I'm so sorry about that. Have a nice night!" I take off after him.

* * *

 _'Wallace, do you realize what you've done?'_ My dad's voice echoes back from earlier today, his face contorted in rage. _'Last night you missed your mother's birthday. What kind of son misses his mother's birthday?'_ What kind of son am I? Sinking ship, drowning in guilt. Irresponsible. Missed it. Oh no, Mom. Crying. _'I told you before you left not to forget. Maybe you could've even stopped by a store and got her something.'_ You told me. I should've know. Remembered. Sinking further. _'But what do you go and do? Forget.'_ I forgot. I'm sorry. Gasping for air, a way to release the guilt. _'You didn't even show up.'_ I forgot. Nothing I could do. Could've remembered. Not hard. _'It was going to just be the three of us, but it was just me and your mother, waiting for you to get home.'_ Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. _'Eventually we gave up and went to bed. You need to find some way to make it up to her.'_ Crying. Sorry. I'm sorry. Gave up on me. I forgot. I want to leave. Let me go!

 _'Wait, Wallace, I'm not finished.'_ Not done. Stay. Endure. _'I got an email from one of your teachers. You failed a test? Your history test?'_ No. I tried. Too tired. Sleepy. Didn't have time. Out of time. No notes. _'Admit it, Wallace. Come on. Own up to it.'_ Own it. Admit it, you coward. Running out of strength to keep myself from sinking. _'You can't live life this way. Your teacher said you didn't even try. What's that about?'_ At least try. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Fail. Failure. Letting go; sinking. _'She said you turned it in with only half the answers even filled in. Why can't you even take a guess?'_ Can't guess. Assurance. Need to know. I'm wrong. I let myself seethe in my guilt. _'You need to grow up and learn how life works so you're prepared for the real world.'_ Grow up. Learn, stupid. Learn. Act like an adult for once.

 _'Did you just forget to study or didn't you have time?'_ Always forget. Stupid. Always. No time. Out of time. _'Should I tell Barry that you need a break to get caught up in school?'_ I'm desparate. No. Not Barry. I need him. I need it. No breaks. _'I'm sure he'll agree with me. School is a lot more important for you than some vigilante nonsense.'_ Nonsense. Stay. I'm stupid and forgetful. Irresponsible.

* * *

Rob's walking beside me, stumbling a little as he goes. I made him drink with me. This is my fault. He's the smart one.

"We should probably get you home…," I advise, stuffing my hands in my jean pockets, watching each step I make.

"Why?" he asks, tilting his head to the side.

I can only think of rude responses due to the gnawing in my chest, so I decide not to say anything.

"Are you okay? You seem sad," he states.

"Only because you're drunk."

Somehow, he knows what I'm thinking. "It's not your fault."

"I made you drink," I say, clenching my fists.

Rob shrugs, stating, "No, you didn't."

I guess that's technically true.

"Are you okay?" he asks again.

"No," I admit.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offers.

"Not really."

Rob locks in eye contact, maintaining an unnerving stare.

"Stop it," I moan.

He doesn't.

"What's your problem?!"

"I'm drunk," he states. That's my fault, that's bad. Like a flood, it fills my body. It feels like bursting from the inside.

"Shut up!" I scream, immediately sitting on the curb. I can't deal with this, but I can't live like this.

 _You never care about anyone but yourself._

 _Arrogant jerk._

 _You're going to cause your own death._

 _We gave up on you._

 _What kind of son?_

 _Own up to it._

 _You didn't even try._

 _Your life is nonsense._

Rob's head is on my shoulder. He's sitting behind me. "You're not okay," He whispers in my ear. I don't know why, but it makes me choke up.

I quickly respond, attempting to keep my voice from cracking and failing miserably, "You're not either. And it's creepy."

"Talk, boy."

"About what?" I attempt.

For a good thirty seconds, he doesn't say anything. I don't say anything. Here this kid is, trying to be a good friend, even if he is under the influence. He's actually got things to cry about when I'm here, sitting on the side of a road, and I can't get over some things my dad and some girl said.

"You haven't told me yet," Rob says.

"I just make problems." Stay vague, stay vague. I breathe, but my throat narrows and I choke up again. "And… I can't even solve any of them."

I feel it coming, so I need to leave. I try to stand, but Rob hugs my neck, saying, "Stop," with a moan like I've been all night and then I can't take it anymore. I give up and fall, landing on Rob, who grunts.

"No, you stop. This isn't funny anymore," I heave, gasping for air as I let out a shame filled sob.

When I feel Rob scoot out from under me, I sit up, bringing my knees to my face.

"You don't get it," I tell him, sniffing. "Okay? That's why I'm not telling you. You don't need to know."

Rob says nothing, but I sense him at my elbow.

"It's just… I try to do the right thing and I don't feel any better. I've tried to make people happy and for the most part it's great because it's makes me happy too. But… it doesn't always work out. I keep messing up and I don't know how to fix it and I didn't want to… ugh!" I take a moment to just breathe and quiet myself.

"Last night was a late night, okay? I couldn't make it home in time because, you know, Flash stuff. And I didn't think I needed to be home. But I did. Not only was it Mom's birthday, but I also didn't get the chance to review notes for a history test that I totally bombed. That spiraled off and I didn't see how it would come back and bite me in the form of my dad, after school. And… I may have accidentally/on purpose made comments that may have offended this girl and she didn't hesitate to deal out some things that I really didn't want to hear."

Rob lifts up my arm and scoots under it.

"All of that sounds like it's not a big deal," I confess. I've been upset because two people said some things. That's… I've blown things way out of proportion.

"It's a big deal," Rob says, snuggling into my armpit.

I pull away from Rob and just pat him on the head. "There," I tell him, feeling like I'm instructing a dog.

"Gosh darn females!" he bursts and I can't help but laugh.

* * *

In an effort to stop Rob from attacking any more hobos, I resolve to get him home as quickly as possible. The only (best, coolest, most fun) way to do that: super speed piggyback ride! When I tell him, he gets way too excited and jumps on my back. I hold up his legs and pull on my goggles, offering him his sunglasses. As I set off, I start to wonder if this is a good idea.

 _Never done this before_

 _Maybe he's too heavy_

 _No, it's fine_

 _Keep my grip_

 _'Thanks for visiting Gotham'_

 _sign, tourists?_

 _people visit Gotham?_

 _almost there_

 _more trees_

 _less buildings_

 _oh no the fence_

 _murderous fence_

 _sloooowww to stop_

When I reach the gate, Rob rolls off my back, opening the gate with the super secret code. He stumbles a bit through the dark on the way to his front door, so I yell at him, "There's your house, little bird, now fly that way. No, not that way! Yes, now go."

I get an idea on my way to the Zeta teleporter.

* * *

Entering the house as quietly as I can, I have no idea how late it is. I arrange the bouquet in a glass vase from the cupboard and fill it with tap water before placing it on the table with a card.

I remembered.


	11. Shouldn't've Done That

**Dick Grayson**

Wally should really be a salesman of some sort. I don't drink on principle. I really don't.

I scuff my shoe against an empty beer can half-buried in the mulch under the swingset. I don't drink. And this is can number….three?

To be fair, Wally looked awful when he showed up. He'd forced a smile and held up the six packs of beer, and we'd decided to go to the park. Alfred's texted me twice now. I said I was with Wally, but I think I must've had an out-of-character typo or something because my explanation of 'I'm at the park with Wally' didn't seem to jive very well.

Maybe it's because we aren't exactly going at normal hours. Maybe it's because it's Gotham and every park after dark is sketchy by default. Maybe Alfred has some sort of spidey-sense that knows when I'm getting myself into trouble. I assured him that I was fine. I am fine.

I don't feel too intoxicated, honestly. Kinesthesia is a little bit off. Long-distance vision is a bit impaired. But really, for all of….how many beers have I had?

We can't have been in the park that long, but Wally has four empty cans littering the wood chips at his feet and is staring morosely into a fifth. He chugged those down really fast. We'd started out with twelve and we're down to…three?

I don't much care for the taste of beer, really. Wally just looked like he needed it, so I'd joined in. He'd presented it as a bit of light fun, but the way he'd knocked those first few cans back, he was trying to get drunk.

Wally's hand drops listlessly to his side, and he scoots over towards me so the chains on our swings clink together. "Rob?" he mumbles. "Do you think maybe I can't get drunk because of the metabolism thing?" He's warm. I can feel the heat radiating off of him even through his shirt and my hoodie, and I wonder if that's a side-effect of the alcohol or if he just runs that hot naturally.

The half-full beer can in my hands is cold. Wally must have pulled them from a freezer or something, because they were still ice-cold when he appeared on my porch. Thank goodness I answered the door instead of Alfred. Bruce was away again-he was always away.

I turn the can over, wondering why I'm still drinking. I guess because I'm thirsty; thirstier than I was before I started drinking. Is that weird? I squint down at the side of the can, honestly confused at the logo placed where I'm pretty sure there ought to be a nutrition facts label.

"How many calories are there in beer anyway?" I ask of Wally. He brought the beer, surely he knows.

Wally leans a little closer, warmth intensifying, and then lets the swing carry him back. He oscillates sideways, spinning his own empty can around between his fingers. "Weird. It doesn't have a calorie count."

So the logo _was_ in the wrong place. Someone at the factory goofed up. I snigger.

"Are you drunk?" Wally asks.

I take evaluation of myself. Vision down: even with the sunglasses off I still can't see much past the streetlight. I want to swing, but I can't quite seem to get the momentum right, which means my bodily functions and reflexes are definitely suffering. But, on the other hand, I feel fine. I feel more than fine.

I feel invincible.

I vaguely remember that invincibility is a symptom of drunkenness, and so I proclaim, "YES." and go back to trying to remember how swings work. Five year olds do this. It can't be that hard.

"Congrats," Wally says flatly. I stop trying to swing. He doesn't sound happy. He fiddles with the tab on his beer can, and it dawns on me that maybe he's not drunk at all. He seemed to want to be-given the enthusiasm with which he'd thrown back the first drink or five. And it's not like he hasn't consumed enough alcohol yet-surely he's had more to drink than me. I cast around for an explanation, and then feel something snick into place.

"It might be because you're really fast," I tell him.

Wally turns to look at me. "What?"

Of course he doesn't understand. I try to explain in smaller words. "That you're immune to the effects of intoxication."

"Okay?" Wally blinks and smiles blithely. "That's what I was saying."

Wow. Déjà vu.

"Great minds think alike," I say, concerned that we may have had this conversation before. I'm cold now. Wally's a bit like a space-heater, but he's too far away. I jump up from the swing and start trying to restore blood flow. Maybe I'm drunker than I thought, because my appendages aren't responding as quickly or exactly like I want them to. Something clinks in the mulch, but I can't see what it is in the dark.

Wally sighs "okay" in this forlorn little voice.

"You seem sad," I say. Probably because he couldn't get himself drunk. He'd seemed really excited about it. Aside from the buzz, I can't say I really recommend it. I don't feel that different.

"No," Wally says. Denial. First stage of grief. Maybe someone died.

"Yes," I say back.

"No."

"Yes," I insist. I'm never wrong about this.

"Well…" he admits. Partial victory! But he's still definitely sad about something. I feel like I owe it to him to find out what it is. He's heard my sob story, surely I can stand to hear his.

"Tell me your troubles," I say, squeezing onto the swing next to him. Or, I would have, if the swing was a bit bigger. I end up sitting on his thighs, and the way he grunts at my weight would have been a knock to my self-esteem if I cared.

"What?" he gasps, readjusting his grip on the chains so we don't fall off. I lurch forward a little, and our noses almost touch.

"Your eyes are really green," I notice.

"Stop it," Wally whines, looking down at his shirt. Shy, maybe? His eyes flick up nervously. "What do you want?"

There are a lot of things that I want. I want Bruce not to be away so often. I want my friend to tell me why he's upset. I want my parents not to be dead. I want to not be drunk so I wouldn't keep losing my balance and ending up way too close to those bright green eyes. Mostly they boil down to one thing though.

"Love," I say, and give him a hug because he looks like he needs it.

"WHat the-" Wally yelps and grapples with the chains, very notably not hugging me back. Still in denial then.

"Shhh." He looks like he wants to argue, so I cover his mouth before saying sternly, "Now. Tell me your secrets."

Wally gives me a look like he's about to impart some great gem of the universe. "You're really creeping me out."

While this is news, it's not exactly world-changing. Nor is it the problem. "Not that. The other thing." I try to give him a bit more personal space-leaning back on the swing as far as I can without feeling like I'm about to fall off.

His eyes drop to the side again and the corners of his mouth tighten. "You don't need to know."

Since when did Wally start channeling Bruce? "What if I want to know?" I pry, tipping my head to try and get into his line of sight.

"I don't want to," Wally whines, and then shifts just enough to tip me off of his lap and into the mulch. Second stage of grief.

I roll onto my elbows, convinced that he did it on purpose and a little stung that he doesn't want to confide in me. "You don't trust me?" I complain. "After everything?"

Something flashes in the back of his eyes, and I realize that I've made things worse, somehow. His voice is low when he murmurs, "No, it's not that."

Hurt forgotten, I leap to my knees, grabbing two handfuls of his T-shirt. "Tell me!"

"I don't want you to have to worry about it," he says softly. And then I get it. I understand it all at once, and I sink back onto the ground. He thinks he's being burdensome by confiding in me, like he's somehow tarnishing me with his bad moods.

"I can take it," I say seriously. "I worry about a lot of things anyway." And I already worry about him. Whether or not he tells me is a bit irrelevant at this point.

"Stop it, no," Wally bites out, squeezing his eyes shut. I'm silent, and he cracks his eyes open again after a minute to look at me, then does a double take. "...But are _you_ okay?"

 _More okay than you._

I lurch to my feet. Distraction, then. He seems truly down about something. If he won't tell me, the least I can do is take his mind off of it. I think that's why he asked me out drinking with him in the first place. Maybe I failed him a bit there. I swing my arms in an arc and shout to the park, "I think I'm drunk, Rudolph."

Wally rolls his eyes and looks up at me like I'm obtuse. "No duh."

The blood rushes from my head concerningly and I think I might be a bit worse off than I thought. I swing my hands to get my balance and wonder what Bruce does when he gets drunk-if he gets drunk. I've seen the man takes shots of scotch or nurse a glass of whiskey on the odd night, but never like this. I don't have any idea what to do.

"Should I take a cold shower?"

Wally snorts, blinking wide eyes up at me. I can almost hear the gears grinding in his head as he struggles to change subjects. "What?"

I try to put one foot in front of the other and find it more difficult than it ought to be. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do?" When you're drunk? Which I am?

"No? Isn't that a myth?" He doesn't sound even remotely confident, and I remember that he probably has about as much experience with this as I do.

"Maybe," I mumble. What do we know anyway? What are we doing?

Wally huffs softly and scuffs at the woodchips with the toe of his sneaker. He's got this faraway look in his eyes and doesn't respond to various stimuli: i.e. snapping my fingers in front of his face, nudging his shoulder, and shouting his name from the sidewalk.

No, he's brooding about something. Wally brooding is not the same as Bruce brooding, I realize. Bruce brooding is productive, buzzy, almost paranoid: you know something's about to go down. Wally brooding is just kind of...pitiful. Like he's beating himself up in his head or something.

I try to be a good friend, I really do. I sit next to him on the swings for a while, nudging his unresponsive hand on every pass. I ask him if he wants to talk, and he just shakes his head.

I'm bored, and to be honest the glazed look in his eye is giving me the creeps. I decide to wander the park a little. Sure, it's Gotham. Sure, the park is a wee bit sketchy. I'm pretty sure I can take whatever it has to offer.

At some point my feet cross from grass onto concrete with me none the wiser. It's a strange feeling, I decide, being drunk. There is a small part of my brain that has realized exactly how far gone I am, and it's telling me in no uncertain terms to text Alfred before I do something stupid. At the same time, it's like that part is on very low volume-like it's a TV that someone left on in the corner of the room, and I'm only barely aware of its static as I go about my business.

Which, as it seems, is tripping down alleyways. I stagger back into my balance, and then tug the lapels of my jacket to make it look like maybe it wasn't an accident, conscious of the hobos staring at me over the embers of a trash fire. I have this vaguely uneasy sense that I've forgotten something important, and I'm mulling that over when I see one of the hobos just casually shove the other.

In _my_ city.

Not tonight, buster. Not tonight.

I am the Boy Wonder.

Hell, tonight, I am Batman. And no harm will come to any citizens in my city unless they bring it on themselves.

I'm slowly pummeling this thug into submission when Wally comes running around the corner. I knew I forgot something.

He still looks sad, but now is not the time. I am the arm of Justice, and my work here is not done.

One of the thugs calls out to Wally for help, thinking him an ally. First and last mistake, buddy. Beware the Batman.

And then Wally ruins it all by shouting "Dick!" in less of a _my-best-friend's-nickname_ and more of a _slang-for-jerk_ sort of way. I guess I did accidentally abandon him in a park.

Wally comes jogging up-rather slowly, I notice-and gives me a look of incredulity I fail to see how I deserve, even if I did accidentally abandon him in a park. A sketchy park. At night.

"What are you doing?"

I am confident in my ability to explain. I point to one of the imbeciles I was educating. "He shoved the other guy and I was avenging him. That's what Batman does." Wally's eyebrow notches up a few degrees, and I feel the need to clarify, "I'm the Batman."

Wally, to my eternal shame, bursts into laughter, doubling over with his hands on his knees. "No, no, you're not."

Okay. "Fine. You got me," I sigh. What a buzzkill. The one and only time I'm actually buzzed and he has to go and ruin it. I might be madder if he still didn't look so miserable, even when he was laughing.

"I'm Robin, the Boy Wonder!" I declare proudly. Wally can't argue with that: he's the one person who knows it's true! I try to flip to demonstrate my acrobatic prowess, but lose sight of the ground somehow and land awkwardly on my shoulders. Something cushions my fall though, so it's okay. I think I could pass it off as intentional.

When I pick myself up, the first thing I see is Wally making pleasant small talk with the hostiles. Overt fraternizing with the enemy. Obviously he has forgotten which side he's on.

I seek to remind him of this, clapping an arm around his shoulders and doing a decent impersonation of his mentor: "I'm the fastest man alive! And this is my trusty sidekick, Kid Flash!"

Wally drops his face into his hands, shoulders shaking in what I hope is amusement. He says apologetically to the hobos, "He's very drunk."

Beside the point, Wallace. _You're just being shy now._

"See? He's even a ginger!" I ruffle his hair pointedly, although in the dim lighting it's hard to tell if you didn't know in advance.

Wally, surprisingly, bristles under my hand and snaps, "No, I'm not."

The reaction confuses me, so I step back, reeling as the sidewalk underneath me seems to shift along with the contents of my stomach. I suddenly feel a little unwell, and make quickly for the street so Wally doesn't notice.

He makes a pleasant apology for me, but then I hear him fall in step behind me. It gives me a little comfort to have him all to myself again. Those hobos were weird.

* * *

Since when is walking so hard? I can't seem to stay in a straight line no matter how hard I try, and instead I keep jostling Wally's shoulder or almost tangling our feet together and taking us both down. The pinnacle of grace, that's me.

Wally, for his part, has gone quiet again. He's hunkered down deep in his pockets and doesn't say anything after the Hobo Incident except "We should probably get you home."

I know I'm drunk. I know I'm fast approaching uselessness, but that doesn't stop me from blurting out, "Why?"

Wally doesn't answer, and I manage to muster enough general coordination to skip a step or two in front of him, forcing him to stop. "Are you okay?" I ask firmly. "You seem sad."

He tries to scoff, but even when I'm plastered I can see through it. "Only because you're drunk."

He's doing the look again-where I can tell he's screaming insults at himself inside his head, and so I say softly, "It's not your fault."

I wasn't expecting anything. I didn't have a clue what he was thinking about, so I'm just as surprised as he looks when his hands clench at his sides and he snarls, "I made you drink."

"No you didn't," I say. Sure, he invited me and put the can in my hand, but _I_ opened it. _I_ kept drinking.

This is also all obviously beside the point: something else is bothering him. "Are you okay?"

"No," he whispers.

I wish I wasn't drunk. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

If I wasn't drunk I would know what the problem is already-I just can't seem to focus. Years of detective training and I can't even help a friend-

"Stop it," Wally whines, hunching his shoulders up so I can't see his face. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be stopping, so I blink at him until he gets annoyed and tried to swat me away. "What's your problem?!"

Mercifully, I don't lose my balance this time. "I'm drunk," I say flatly.

I have no idea why, but that's what does him in. He screams incoherently at me and then slumps down on the curbside like a puppet who's just had his strings cut. His breath hisses out in sharp bursts, and he locks his arms around his knees to stop shaking, eyes fixed on a set point in front of him.

 _I know that look._

I had it on the top of the trapeze set, staring down and down and down at the things I didn't want to see.

I sink down next to Wally and drop my head on his shoulder. I can't quite hug him-not like this, but I can give him some sort of physical comfort. "You're not okay," I tell him.

I can hear his breath stick in his throat, and his voice is wrecked when he whispers, "You're not either. And it's creepy."

 _God, I know._ I tap his shoulder. "Talk, boy." That's the only way it gets better.

 _Believe me, I know._

"About what?" he mutters thickly. I wait. We go about thirty seconds without saying anything, and I eventually give him a little nudge-he's way overheated-and point out softly, "You haven't told me yet."

"I just make problems," Wally stammers, and then drags in a shaky breath. "And I can't ever solve any of them."

Some problems can't be solved, Wally. _You're a fool for trying._

Some things aren't meant to be fixed.

But of course Wally would try anyway. He would try and try and try until he couldn't try anymore, and it would break him.

"Stop," I tell him, wrapping both arms around his shoulders when he tries to jump onto his feet. He's trying to escape, but that won't help anything. Running away now will just make him feel guiltier when he has to deal with it later. Just give up now, while it's easy. Let it out.

Wally keens softly and drops from my shoulder into my lap. "No, _you_ stop," he gasps. "This isn't funny anymore." He heaves in a breath that only sounds a bit like a sob, and then almost-shoves me away to curl inward again. "You don't get it, okay?" he bites out, ears and neck flushing pink. "That's why I'm not telling you. You don't need to know."

What wouldn't _I_ understand, Wally?

I wait patiently, like Bruce had waited for me on my rough nights. I had screamed at him to go away, sure. But he had always waited: in the hall or at the foot of my bed, always in reach, always within earshot. I figured Alfred had done the same thing for him, once upon a time. Now it's my turn.

I just wish I wasn't drunk.

"It's just..." Wally sniffles, and I brace myself for the paydirt. His shoulders are shaking, and I huddle close around his back. "I try to do the right thing and I don't feel any better. I've tried to make people happy and for the most part it's great because it's makes me happy too." Such a Boy Scout all the time. "But… it doesn't always work out. I keep messing up and I don't know how to fix it and I didn't want to… ugh!" He pauses for breath and swipes angrily at his cheeks. He explains to me how he had a rough few days. He's screwed up undoubtedly-he'd made the wrong priority and boy did he know it.

I'm familiar with the feeling, and eventually get sick of trying to hug his unresponsive back and nestle underneath his arm, reaching around his side underneath the jacket.

Wally's voice is much steadier now. "All of that sounds like it's not a big deal," he mutters, and I can feel his skin grow warm again. He's probably embarrassed: he was crying for a good bit of his explanation.

I shake my head. "It's a big deal." He'd screwed up-he knew it. Hopefully he'd learned from it.

What more could you ask for? Why were people so hard on him? I was hard on myself, but at the end of the day I knew the only person I'd disappointed was me.

I wish Wally had that.

I wish I knew how to give him that.

We made an odd couple, snuggling on the curbside. I'm starting to feel sleepy and sway a bit when Wally gently pushes me away and pats the top of my head. He gives me a look that I recognize extremely well before saying "There," and rising to his feet. He wants to thank me, you see, but at the same time, he can't, because that would mean acknowledging that the slip had happened.

I'm alright with that. I'm quickly becoming too tired to care.

"Gosh darn females!" I declare around a yawn. This all would have never happened if they possessed the slightest bit of tact.

Wally laughs, and I consider that a victory.

* * *

I honestly don't remember how Wally got me home. I'm two steps through the door (why is the light so bright?) before I run into Alfred and Bruce doing their parental tag-team skit: arms crossed and their eyebrows raised in creepy unison.

Bruce takes one look at me and growls, "Bed." in his Very Serious voice that means we will be having a long discussion in the morning, if he doesn't kill me first.

I scamper. I know a reprieve when I see one.

I'm asleep the minute I hit the pillows.

* * *

I end up spending most of the next day either in the bathroom or in my room with the shades drawn. Bruce is surprisingly rational given the stunt I pulled, and we agree on me being grounded for a week without patrols or Netflix, and I have to help Alfred wash the silver. It seems pretty fair.

Wally pops up on my porch on my first day of freedom, Teen Wolf DVD box set in hand, and just kind of smiles sheepishly at me before saying, "Sorry you got grounded."

"Nah," I shrug. "Alfred says it's probably good for me. Come on in."

I don't regret a thing.


	12. Smoke on the Water

**Wally West**

"Mary, I'm missing two six packs of Coors," Dad says, announcing his entrance into the living room. He stands like a guard, arms folded, eyes on my mom and I on the couch. Me watching an old episode of 'Fringe' with my face in a bag of Ruffles and Mom reading her crime/romance novel, her feet up on the coffee table.

Upon realizing that the missing beer is my doing, I drop the chips and make a mad scramble for the next room.

Mom looks up from her book. "I didn't take them," she responds, turning the page.

Both of them look to me as I reach the doorway, stopping my escape attempt.

"What?" I ask innocently, just grasping that fleeing pretty much proves my guiltiness. I almost made it.

Mom gives me her harsh, yet loving, look that says 'fess up, little punk'.

I snort, scrambling to come up with an excuse. Spitting out the first thing I think of, I tell them, "I blame the aliens. Those darn aliens and their alcohol."

My cell phone rings, playing 'The Big Bang Theory' theme song. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Recognizing my other snafu: abandoning the bag of chips on the couch; I retrieve them. I hold my ringing phone up and dubiously back out of the room, saying, "Sorry, lovely parents, but I have to take this. It may or may not involve saving the world."

Safely around the corner and blocked from my parent's glares, the screen declares 'Dick' as the caller. I answer, "Hey," as I grab a handful of chips.

"Hey. Bruce and I are taking a long weekend out at the beach house and he said I could bring a friend. So guess what. You're coming with me to the beach house this weekend."

Because I instantly burst with excitement at the idea of chilling at a beach house, I act cool. Which means I pretend not to be excited at all. I comment, "Aw, gee, is it really okay to leave Gotham undefended for so long? I mean, how will Batman keep up his regime of terror if he takes the weekend off?"

Without a second's thought, Rob counters, "Green Arrow can city-sit for us."

I picture the archer suddenly wearing black leather instead of the usual green, driving around in the batmobile and Speedy, in the passenger seat, shooting bat-arrows at muggers.

"Really?" I ask, amused by the thought, licking the salt off my fingers.

"No, but crime is down. We can leave for a few days," Rob states. "And it's not like Batman ever catches 100% of the criminals anyway."

"That's kind of morose," I criticize, shoving my face full.

"Do you want to come to the beach or not?"

"Yes," I admit. I bet the beach house has it's own Batcave. Then I just remember to ask, "Do I need to bring anything?" Sleeping bag? Toothbrush? Floaties?

There's a pause where I wonder if I said something wrong before Rob points out,"It's Bruce Wayne."

I chuckle. "I guess not then."

"We'll pick you up Friday night," Rob finishes, hanging up. No, pick me up now! Save me from my wrathful parents.

* * *

After my parents discovered that I did not, in fact, need to save the world and that there was nothing left of those eight beers, I offer that at least I didn't get drunk. Apparently that was not the correct answer because I was tasked with cleaning the entire house top to bottom and even that weird closet that we never use. Mopping, scrubbing, dusting, sweeping, and some wood polishing. It took a long time because they constantly checked up on me to make sure I cleaned at a "normal" pace.

Unluckily, that made Friday night come really slow. Luckily, that made me even more ecstatic when the gray Bentley pulled up outside my house.

Giving Mom a brief squeeze, I have my hand on the door knob when she asks, "Didn't you pack anything?"

Oh, yeah.

Zooming upstairs, I gather a backpack of only the essentials (shorts, t-shirt).

I give Dad a salute, who just lifts up a hand in a wave before I burst out the door, switching to a totally cool casual walk, and slide into the back seat next to Rob.

Rob's first comment is about how we're not actually going to go swimming tonight and why am I wearing my swim trunks? I shrug, replying that at least I'm wearing a t-shirt.

* * *

In the super soft king-sized bed, I slept in my swim trunks. I've committed to never taking them off as long as I'm here. Convincing Rob to put his on this morning, I was in the process of dragging him out to the beach when Bruce calls us to a table of food. I get lost in the amazing quantity of the bacon, eggs, sausage, and pancakes and I think I cry from joy.

Once you understand that Bruce Wayne's Batman, seeing him all casual-like is even weirder. Sipping coffee, reading a newspaper. Batman. It doesn't compute.

I've just finished my last pancake, full for the moment (kudos to Bruce), so I take in the atmosphere of the place. Everything smells airy and fresh, probably from the ocean. All the windows seem to be open, and the wind blows in the humid air from outside, only to be overtaken by the AC. Well, when you're Bruce Wayne, a little extra on the electric bill is no biggie.

The whole place seems similar to Wayne Manor, which makes sense, but everything is lighter somehow. From the curtains to the wood. Also like the mansion, ancient artifacts are displayed throughout, except here everything is water-themed. The wheel of a ship, paintings, a trident (maybe Aquaman's?). I wouldn't be surprised if some stuff is from the wreckage of the Titanic.

Here in the dining room, Bruce, dressed less like Batman and more like a businessman, sits on one end of the long glass dining table with Rob and I on the other. Mountains of food are piled in between. Bruce's side is also home to a spread-out newspaper, which he investigates as he drinks his coffee. My plate is licked clean, but Rob's still working on a sausage.

Probably seeing that I've finished, Rob inquires,"So can you actually run on water?" He's cutting up a sausage into little bits, which is bothering me way more than it should. Just eat the thing!

Bruce looks up from his domain at the head of the table, seemingly as interested as Rob. The sudden curiosity is almost unsettling.

"Um," I consider, scratching my head. I don't think I've been to a secluded beach to actually try something like that since the accident. "I've never tried it," I confess. But why couldn't I? "I guess?"

Bruce takes a sip of coffee, wisely imparting, "In terms of simple physics, I don't see why it wouldn't work."

Physics, huh? That makes me grin. Kicking Rob underneath the table, I whisper, "Mr. Shoger."

"Seriously?" Rob rolls his eyes back at me.

"You've never tried it?" Bruce inquires.

Is that a challenge? Are you saying I should? Because I will.

"Let's try!" I announce, gesturing for Rob to come. I dart out the back double doors, their white curtains flying back.

Bruce shouts something to me in response, but I'm off the deck, not caring because the ocean's right in front of me. My feet hit the sand, spraying up behind me. The light blue sky meets the dark blue water and I rush out to meet it. As I speed towards the water, I scan up and down the beach, seeing no other houses or buildings or people or anything. I slow down before reaching the water to wait for Rob, wiggling my toes in the gentle sand.

After forever, I consider trying without him when he finally emerges from the house, wearing his shades with an added strap keeping them on his head. I search the windows for any spying batmen.

"Good job getting rid of any witnesses," I greet Rob as he sprints down the beach to join me.

Rob smiles. "Bruce wouldn't laugh."

I try to imagine Bruce laughing and I can't, so I believe him. I shoot him a doubtful look before looking down at the crumbled shells in the sand, retorting, "But he would silently judge me." From the windows. I look over the windows of the house again for a shadowed figure.

"Okay, maybe," he admits. But then he gets that challenging look in his eye. "But I will too."

He's looking forward to me failing, but unlike Bruce, I can picture him laughing.

"Thanks, friend," I reply sarcastically.

He adds, "Only if you trip."

"Thanks," I repeat, reining in my concentration. Great, he's jinxed it. I'm so going to trip now. I figure that if I just stay going fast enough…

I take off going straight out, my bare feet leaving the soft sand and hitting the not-solid water. It's a weird sensation, it almost tickles. Pushing off the water before I have a chance to sink into it.

"Dude!" Rob shouts approvingly.

"It's working! I'm doing the thing! Rob, look! I'm-" And as soon as I turn around to face the beach, I must have paused, because I instantly sink with a sploosh.

As I break the surface, treading water, Rob cackles from shore. I cough up some salt water. Wiping the water from my eyes, I instantly regret not bringing my goggles. They would be perfect for this. I try getting back up, but the water prevents me from doing so, just creating waves. As I stroke back, Rob shouts, "You made it, like, twenty yards. That's got to count for something."

Crawling up onto the shore, I drag myself to his feet, feigning exhaustion. "Yeah, okay," I gasp. "But I think I have to start from the edge."

"I guess. Try again?" he suggests, unfazed by my demeanor.

This kid needs to do something. He needs to be having as much fun as I am.

A grin grows on my face as I offer, "Do you want to try?" I roll onto my back, looking up at him.

"You do realize I'm a normal human being, right?" His face looks confused.

My mind produces a lovely image of Rob waving his arms in the air, sprinting into the water and sinking like a rock, continuing until he's fully submerged.

I spring to my feet, making stirrups with my hands. I clarify, "No, like, you want to come with me?"

Rob makes the sign of the cross. "If I end up at the bottom of the ocean, I'm blaming you." But he hops on my back without second thought.

"Wimp," I scoff. "It can't be that much worse than road burn, right?"

With his arms wrapped around my neck, I hardly have to hold him on because he clings to my back like a baby koala. I guess I won't have to worry about him falling off. To freak him out, I take off running without warning and hit the water. Rob tightens his grip. I trip, forgetting to account for the extra weight and overall imbalance. Rob holds me under a little too long, so when I emerge I spit water at him. He wrinkles his nose.

Second time is pretty much the same except I wipe-out at a weird angle, so Rob goes flying over my head and actually skips like a stone once before splashing in. I make fun of him and suggest that we try to get three skips next time.

My victory comes at Rob's halting third try. He probably just doesn't want to be skipped like a stone again, but once we get going, I manage to keep going. The trick comes with focusing on a point on the horizon and less on my feet. As long as I don't slow down, I think I'll be okay. I get fancy with some tight corners and skimming over some fun waves. I feel like a jet ski. At this point, we're both whooping and laughing. Rob points out a ship and then shouts to me over the sound of the wind and the water something like, 'there are boat tours of the mansions along the shore'. When I catch a glimpse of the shore again, I see that we're a pretty good ways out. If I trip now we'd have to swim a long way. Logically, I head out even farther.

"Whoa, slow down," Rob yells into my ear over the rushing air.

I reply with a smirk, "I don't think you want me to do that."

"Fine," Rob allows. "Just look over there."

I almost have to ask where, but then that I notice it. And then I can't believe I missed it. To clarify, I ask,"Was that the boat you saw a few minutes ago?"

Further up the coastline, the boat billows out a smoke cloud. That can only mean bad things.

"Yeah," Rob confirms sorely.

Here's the moment. I know it really well. It's the time I have to decide if I'm going to act. It has nothing to do with Rob being here. He doesn't change anything. It has nothing to do with being Kid Flash; I could easily ignore this. It's the moment before you get into a situation and there's no going back. But my answer is always, 'Heck yeah, let's do this.' I tend to move in favor of changing it, reversing the damage. And I can't decide if that's good or bad.

"I bet I can get over there in less than two minutes," I claim eagerly.

"No way." Shun the nonbeliever. Time to prove him wrong.

* * *

We both splash in once we reach the boat. It's not graceful at all; I belly-flop somehow. I don't get the chance to see Rob's reaction because I can't ignore the sounds coming from up on deck.

Looking up the metal side of this two-level ship, screams drift down to us, along with shouts. Running on the deck. Fire blazing, creaking, crashing. Some sort of alarm blaring through a horn. Worst of all, gunshots. Quick, staccato explosions in spurts. A lump forms in my throat. Locating a bar sticking out on the side, I have one hand and a foot on the ladder when Rob grabs my shirt and tugs me back down.

The voice of reason, Rob inquires, "Hold up a sec, you don't have a mask. What are you planning to do?"

I'm surprised that he's concerned about me right now when obviously someone has to do something! Is he really going to suggest I stay hidden? I anxiously grasp the rung, unable to tear my gaze from the edge of the railing above us.

I respond in haste,"Go up there and kick butt?"

"And what if people have cameras?" he points out, steadily treading the water.

This actually causes me to stop and think. Barry's speeches about keeping the idea that Wally West equals Kid Flash a secret comes to mind. He actually talks about that a lot. _'Not only does wearing goggles protect your identity, but it makes you slightly more invincible in the eyes of everyone else. Don't ask me why, it just does. They don't know who you could be and that makes you that more of a threat.'_

A picture could prove Wally West equals Kid Flash. A picture could ruin my life. A picture could murder my parents, fail me out of high school, burn down my house, and even kill me.

This is easily more important than my identity.

"Uh," I try. "I'll go super fast?"

When I hear the gun go off a couple more times, I hopefully portray a face that conveys everything I've been thinking to Rob. His face is filled with concern, but I can't tell if it's for me or for the passengers. It better be the passengers.

"Okay. Fine. Just get up there."

I get up there. I scramble up that ladder like the Flash, not thinking of possible consequences.

A woman's voice shouts above the chaos. I hear her before I see her. "Ever heard of 'Annie Get Your Gun'? Well, Annie's got her gun. Time to shoot!"

Then I see her. She doesn't look much like a 'her'. Her short haircut is stuffed underneath a fedora and she's wearing a men's suit, complete with a red tie. And this crazy chick has a machine gun. She waves it above her head before firing another burst at the wall of an above-deck cabin, narrowly missing someone trying to hide behind it. When she takes a second to adjust her hat, it comes across like she's not really trying to accomplish anything, which is the scary part.

The rest of the deck is in ruins complete with smoke billowing from a previous explosion.

Apparently having spotted me, she lets off a burst in my direction with an arrogant smirk. I duck into a roll behind a deckchair, hoping it's enough for cover.

"It's like one of those shooting arcade games!" she calls to me. "Come out and I promise to miss a couple of times before you die!"

I see, she thinks this is fun.

I shift anxiously, trying to recall what I'm supposed to do for armed gunmen. Disarm them? Rob then finally heaves himself over the railing.

"What took you so long?" I ask, motioning him to come towards me.

He takes the hint and dives for cover behind the same chair. "Shut up."

Realizing I don't have to do this by myself, I question, "Any brilliant plans, gadget boy?"

He gestures toward his non-existent utility belt. "Zilch, Simon Peter."

Crazy chick's voice echoes over to us, "This only works when I have someone to shoot at! I only have so much patience!" I press harder against the chair. We're running out of time.

"Can't we do something about the civilians over there?" I suggest, trying to peek around the chair to see them. "As long as she's got that gun, they're pinned."

Rob seems to take my suggestion into account, but he's deep in thought, obviously devising a plan. His eyes light up behind his shades when he looks to me to ask, "Are you faster than a bullet?"

The Flash is. "Um," I reply shyly.

He gets a worried look on his face again. "Right. Okay." He quickly tries to hide it. "You go over there and try to screen them as best you can from the cabin to the lifeboats. Use tables as shields."

"What about you?"

Rob displays his classic arrogant grin and lifts up a fire extinguisher. I do a double take. Where did that come from? He nods to its spot on the wall behind me. "I'm going to try and get rid of that gun."

It's now or never. I leap over Rob, taking off across the deck in a high speed zig zag. In order to cause more distraction for Rob than what is probably necessary, I knock over several of the tables and chairs on the deck. With the deck littered with debris, crazy chick spins in a circle in attempt to track me with her gun.

We probably look really silly, the two of us. Not only are we in swim trunks and t-shirts, but without our costumes, it feels like we're only pretending to know what we're doing.

When I see that Rob manages to stealthily sneak up behind her and swing the fire extinguisher, knocking the machine gun out of her hand, I move to hastily build a sort of barricade of deck furniture. I direct the boating tourists to hide behind it on their way to the lifeboats. Sure that they can get themselves away safely, I turn back to the action...

Where the crazy chick has a pistol pointed at Rob's head. He's on the ground, sitting up, looking into the barrel of the gun, clutching his fire extinguisher. "Ugh! Really?" she complains, pulling the hammer back, crouching down to get close to Rob's face before saying with a fake rasp, "I don't have time for heroes today. Don't try to be a hero."

No.

Rob.

"Too late for that!" I shout, setting off towards Rob. But Crazy Chick reaches into her jacket pocket, aiming another pistol at me. I freeze in place.

The corners of her mouth turns up and she tilts the gun in emphasis to each word she hurls, "Red hair, super speed? You must be Kid Flash. Where's the flashy costume?"

She sees my face. This has to be all or nothing now. If she gets away after this...

Switching her attention down the sights of the opposite pistol, she nudges Rob with her foot, taunting,"That makes you Robin, doesn't it? I'm guessing."

"Lady, you're completely out of your league here," I say, trying to intimidate. When I take a step forward, she inhales a breath, mouth open, causing me to hesitate in confusion. Since when do I hesitate?

That inhale turns into her threatening, "Don't make any moves, or I'll fire both pistols at the same time." I'm about to challenge that when she adds, "While I might miss you, I'll definitely hit your friend here."

Rob finally speaks up, no trembling at all in his voice, more smug that I expected, confronting her with, "Are you sure?" I'm jealous of his confidence.

Crazy Chick turns her head back to Rob, "Want me to prove it?"

I can't be wait anymore. I dash forward during her momentary distraction. Rob takes the same moment to take another swing with the extinguisher at the backs of her knees and

 _twisted, she's falling_

 _BOOM_

 _the pistol towards me goes off_

 _bullet's too fast_

 _trailing off above my head_

 _too high_

 _that's a miss, crazy chick_

 _BOOM_

 _the pistol towards Rob goes off_

 _no no no_

 _Rob_

 _no_

 _Are you faster than a bullet?_

 _no, Dick_

 _I'll try to be_

 _nothing's moving_

 _but me and_

 _the bullet_

 _I'm too slow_

 _the bullet_

 _Dick_

 _no_

 _almost there_

 _Dick_

 _few more steps_

 _too slow_

 _bullet's too fast_

 _slide onto knees_

 _ramming into Dick_

 _bullet's too fast_

 _Dick_

 _dodge a bullet, Wally_

 _dodge a stupid bullet_

 _watch it_

 _nick my left arm_

 _crazy chick falls to her knees_

Sliding into Rob causes me to slip out of the speed-thinking and into an intense stinging.

Rob grunts from the impact.

"Augh. Ow!" I protest. But with crazy chick finally off guard, I disarm her, taking both pistols from her hands, and carelessly tossing them over the railing. "Now what?" I gasp, suddenly unable to prevent my hand from clutching my arm where I think I got shot.

"I pull out another gun," the crazy chick smirks, holding a small revolver. She manages to skillfully keep it trained on both of us as she stands and backs away. "You're not faster than my trigger finger, so don't even try it. And…" She waits a moment before shouting, "BOOM!"

Across the deck, a detonation resonates. I assume that it's something below deck, but when I look back to where she was, she gone. I take a lap around the deck and report that we're the last ones aboard. There's nothing more to do here.

"You got shot?" Rob asks incredulously.

"No, I don't-" I twist to inspect it under my hand. The hand I pull away is already sticky with the red bodily fluid and I have the urge to wipe it on my pants. Wow, that's a lot of blood. Feeling slightly nauseous, I clutch it again, stammering out a response, "Oh, h-hey, look at that. It doesn't hurt or anything. That much. 'Tis a flesh wound."

But Rob pulls off his blue t-shirt and rips it. All business-like, he turns me around, lifting up my arm to tightly wrap it. I finally drop my right hand from holding my arm.

"Let's go," Rob insists.

Maybe a little too enthusiastic for the situation, I reply, "Right-o!"

"Can you still carry me?"

"As long as you don't touch it," I offer, making stirrups with my hands.

* * *

I successfully freak out Rob (there was much protesting) by jumping over the railing with him on my back. In my mind, I had already calculated the angle I need to hit the water at in order to continue running. I've launched myself from the deck of the ship at a close guess to the correct speed. A bit of me kicking my legs at the air and I smoothly hit the water. Once we're off, I look behind me to Rob, his eyes wide under his shades. The whole way back, I clench my teeth in effort to ignore the pain in my arm and try to think of the tan line Rob's going to have from those shades. He's going to look like a raccoon.

After skimming along the coastline, I finally spot the Wayne's beach house. Not wanting to get wet again, I continue running up onto the beach until we reach the back door, where I let him down. Rob, still in all-business mode, points to the loveseat on the back porch. "Stay," he demands, disappearing into the house.

I obediently comply, settling myself into the rattan loveseat. Pulling one of the green-striped pillows onto my lap, I make a fist, punching it a couple of times, aware that I'm grunting with each hit. I'm sick of this kid having to take care of me. Seeing that all my muscles are now tense, there's no denying that it hurts. I squeeze the pillow, clutching it like a lifeline, strangling it like a rag.

I'm able to take a deep breath when Rob's back out with a first aid kit.

"I really hope this doesn't need stitches," Rob admits, sitting beside me on the armrest and flipping open the box on his lap.

Focusing on breathing normally, I ask in surprise, "Do you know how to do stitches?"

"I mean," he pauses, maybe realizing that he's not supposed to be scaring me by threatening to do needlework on my skin."I understand the theory, but I've never actually done it."

I gulp, repeating his words, "...I hope this doesn't need stitches."

"I'm going to have to pull your shirt up to look at it, okay?" I'm about to make a joke, but decide against it and willingly pull up my sleeve, wincing, letting Rob work. "I need you to hold the tourniquet in place."

I do that. "Is it going to hurt?"

Rob has a bit of fabric that he wets with some antibacterial stuff. "No, not at all." Holding his makeshift t-shirt wrap higher up on my arm, he presses the wet cloth on the bloody mess.

"Oh, ok-," I start and then it stings like crazy. Splitting aching. Tensing up, I scream curses at him, mostly just calling him a liar.

"Relaaax," Rob soothes, still weirdly calm.

"It hurts!" I stress, enunciating excessively and clenching my teeth.

"I'm making it stop hurting," he explains, not even flinching.

"No! You're not!" I stress, trying to make him understand.

"Just shush for a minute, okay?"

I stiffen myself enough so that all that emerges is a high-pitched whine.

"It's not actually as deep as I thought," Rob says carefully, putting his hands down. "I think you'll be okay. But we can go to the hospital, if you want?"

Hospitals are bad. Not only do they have to report all gunshot wounds, but they don't know what to do with a guy like me. "Nah, I heal fast," I clamber. "Just make it stop hurting."

"We have some painkillers," Rob provides. "In the meantime I'm just going to bandage this up nice and tight, okay?"

"'Kay."

While he's wrapping the bandages, my mind drifts off, out to the waves. I can see the waves reach as far as they can up onto the beach before falling back down. The consistent, rhythmic sound is relieving, I change my breathing to match it, letting it calm me.

Where did that good time go? It was only an hour ago that I was teasing Rob and dumping him in the ocean.

"Hey, um," Rob coughs. "Thanks."

I should be thanking him; he's the one slaving over my injury.

"Thanks for what?" I ask honestly.

"You knocked me out of the way," he says, concentrating on his work, unable to look at me. "So I'm thankful."

He thinks this is his fault, doesn't he?

I grunt when he pulls the wrapping tight. "Hey," I let out with a sigh, smiling softly. "What are friends for?"

When Rob offers me a couple painkiller pills, I toss them in my mouth. He asks, "Do you know the psycho gunslinger?"

The crazy chick didn't seem familiar. I'm sure she would've suggested if she knew me when she puzzled out my identity. Pushing thoughts of my mistake away, I convince myself that she wouldn't remember long enough to do anything with it. Do I remember her face? Not really. I'll be fine.

"No. I thought she looked more like one of your guys," I suggest. "i.e. homicidal maniacs who recently escaped from an insane asylum." For example, Joker, Harley Quinn, Zsasz, Riddler, Two-Face, Scarecrow… All psychos. The list goes on and on.

"I've never seen her," he says.

"Huh," I sigh, starting to feel kind of better. The pain in my arm's gradually going away.

 _Weird_

 _that hurt more a second ago_

 _it works!_

 _there was_

 _Something in his voice_

 _like… oh, whatever..._

What was I worried about? Rob seemed unsure? He hasn't seen her before.

Then I hear the front door open and Rob springs up. Heh, sounds like Bruce had come back early.

"Oh, no," Rob breaths.

I don't see what the big deal is. It's just Batman; he's definitely used to seeing blood. Bruce peeks around the corner, like he senses we're there on the back porch.

"I believe I forgot my brief…," He trails off when he takes in the scene. Me, on the couch, probably looking terrible, blood spurting from my arm; and Rob, with the first aid kit in his hands, probably looking like a deer in headlights. Bruce zeroes in on Rob. "Dick, care to explain?"

"I would love to," Rob replies.

Bruce, however, keeps going, "I've barely been gone a half-hour and suddenly Wally is bleeding out on the back porch?" He crouches down next to me, inspecting Rob's work. It's only been a half-hour? It's got to be longer than that.

"But on the plus side," Rob offers. "The fridge is still full." I wonder what a full fridge has to do with anything. Not important.

Bruce pokes my arm.

"Ow?" I insist.

"Apologies. Gunshot wound at close range?"

"Yessir," Rob answers for me.

"By whom?"

"We don't know. Crazy chick with a gun."

My input to this conversation is: "But I can walk on water!"

Bruce continues, "We'd better get you to a professional doctor."

Letting my head tilt to the side, I shrug and murmur, "We c'ld jus' go to The Flash?"

He'll be able to deal with me better than any doctor. These guys are crazy to keep suggesting a hospital.

"Very good. I'll have the car brought around."

* * *

Pretty much as soon as we get in the car, the drugs wear off. I refuse to say anything. For the rest of the ride, I'm back to clutching it.

The driver pulls the Bentley up outside of Barry's house.

I get escorted by Bruce to the front door. It occurs to me that I haven't told Barry that Bruce is Batman and here I am casually outing Barry as the Flash to Batman. But I think he already knows.

"Bruce Wayne's Batman and Barry Allen's The Flash," I blurt out when Barry opens the door, hoping to get rid of any awkwardness and confusion. I fail. Both men shoot me an odd look.

"Hello, Wally," Barry greets, oblivious to my injury.

"Hey, Barry," I greet him and then explain, "I got shot."

Wide-eyed, Barry unwraps it to take a look as Bruce explains that he wasn't around when this happened and then leaves me.

Barry displays his 'oh, now this makes sense' face and says with a sigh, "Not again."

I guess I do end up bleeding a lot.


	13. Top-Notch Lifegaurd Training

**Dick Grayson**

Taking vacations with Bruce is pretty commonplace, all things considered. He decides for whatever reason that he wants to leave town for a few days (he wants to take down an international crime squad, tail a suspect over the country borders, distract himself from the mundanity of work, etc.), and we just pack up, go, and come back. He owns houses all over the country and several abroad-I can't remember the last time we stayed in an actual hotel.

When he announces over breakfast on Tuesday that we're taking a long weekend at the Atlantic beach house, I for one am more excited than usual because he casually mentions that I can bring a friend if I want.

By friend, Bruce means Wally. None of my other acquaintances quite fit into the 'invite-along-to-a-mysterious-vacation-with-your-vigilante-guardian' subcategory.

I'm late, so I don't get a chance to call Wally about it until after school. He's programmed into my phone as 'Contact 3,' which is a result of Bruce's paranoia and my own phone encryptions. If I had it my way he would simply be known in my contacts as 'The Weasley,' but even that would give too much away if someone ever broke into my phone.

He picks up right away, but I can hear him chewing around the muffled "Hey?"

Of course he's eating. I don't know why I'm surprised.

"Hey," I mimic, and then cut right to the chase. "Bruce and I"-no Alfred, he's at some sort of butlers' convention this weekend, which I think is part of why Bruce and I are getting out of dodge-"are taking a long weekend out at the beach house, and he said I could bring a friend. So guess what. You're coming with me to the beach house this weekend."

Wally pauses, probably to swallow, and then says dryly, "Aw, gee, is it really okay to leave Gotham undefended for so long?" Three days, Wally. It's hardly going to be anarchy. "I mean, how will Batman keep up his regime of terror if he takes the weekend off?"

I roll my eyes. "Green Arrow can city-sit for us."

"Really?" Wally snorts.

I think about it. Bruce hadn't called Oliver recently that I knew of, so probably not this time. "No," I admit. "But crime is down. We can leave for a few days. And it's not like Batman ever catches 100% of the criminals anyway."

Wally sounds like he just shoved an entire bag of chips into his mouth, and it takes me a moment to translate his garbled sentence into "That's kind of morose."

"Do you want to come to the beach house or not?"

"YES," Wally says eagerly. I wonder if he's bouncing yet. "Do I need to bring anything?"

I let him hang in silence for a minute, wondering if he'll reach the proper conclusion himself. When he doesn't, I let him off the hook and point out, "It's Bruce Wayne."

He laughs appreciatively. "I guess not then."

"We'll pick you up Friday night," I conclude, and barely hear his "no wait!" before I hang up. I stare at the phone for a second, wondering if I should call him back, but then Alfred rings the bell for dinner and we go straight out for patrol afterwards, and I end up forgetting.

A+ Friendship there, Dick.

* * *

So it turns out that Wally also got busted for the Hobo Incident, and he's probably lucky his parents let him come at all. He certainly looks like a happy jailbird when he flings himself into the backseat of the Bentley next to me. His knee brushes against mine, and I'm startled to see him wearing swim trunks already.

"We're not going swimming tonight," I say slowly, hoping to shoot down any ideas he may have.

Wally just beams at me. "At least I'm wearing a T-shirt."

Across the seat from us, Bruce smirks at me over his book and quietly knocks on the glass to tell the driver to start the car.

* * *

Just like with the Wayne mansion, Wally isn't fazed in the slightest by the grandeur of the beach house, which isn't so much a beach house as it is a slightly-smaller Wayne mansion. This is the sort of beach house the middle class take boat trips along the coastline to ogle at, complete with stained glass window seats and furniture salvaged from a long-lost shipwreck.

It was dark when we pulled in last night though, which may have explained why Wally didn't comment at first on the size of the place. He's a bit more attentive now at breakfast, green eyes darting around to drink it all in.

Bruce is sitting across from us at the breakfast table, looking far more awake than either of us feels. We didn't get to bed until after three, and Bruce has been up since the crack of dawn. He's wearing a pair of slacks and a white button-down with the cuffs rolled up to his forearms, so I know that this trip is at least partially for business, albeit pretty casual business. Probably a meeting of some sort. Maybe he's impressing some new investors.

Wally hasn't taken his swimming trunks off except presumably to take a shower this morning, and talked me into putting mine on this morning in lieu of the pair of jeans I'd packed. Today was supposed to be sunny, and I hoped I could come up with an excuse to spend at least the hottest hours indoors where I wouldn't burn. Spending your days in private school buildings with small windows and your nights awash in artificial screenlight isn't exactly conducive to a protective suntan. I'm as white as they come. At least Wally has freckles, which proves that he has an ounce of melanin in his body. There's hope for him.

I never realize how much I like Alfred's cooking until he isn't here. Bruce hired a local cook to take care of us for the few days that we're here, but the food just isn't the same. Wally, predictably, still looked like he was having a religious moment when he saw breakfast and has vacuumed his plate clean. He fidgets a little and looks like he's not entirely comfortable with the silence.

I take pity. "So, can you actually run on water?"

"Um." His fidgeting is more pronounced now. "I've never tried it. I guess?"

"In terms of simple physics, I don't see why it wouldn't work," Bruce says airily.

Wally kicks my shin underneath the table and hisses "Mr. Shoger!" triumphantly.

"Seriously?" I groan. I thought Mr. Shoger was chemistry.

Bruce obviously missed none of this little exchange-he never misses anything-but he doesn't comment. He just takes another sip from his coffee and asks pleasantly, "You've never tried it?"

I see Wally's eyes light up and realize that Bruce has just issued him a challenge. Without further preamble, he slams both hands on the table and declares, "Let's try!" before zooming out through the doors and onto the sand.

"Try not to alarm the surfers," Bruce chuckles, looking far too pleased with himself. As if he doesn't own five miles of beach on this coastline.

I resignedly scoot my chair back, ready to follow him, but Bruce says my name softly and I freeze, rapt attention shifting over to him.

"I'm having a few clients meet me for lunch," he says. "Do you think you and Wally can hold the fort while I'm away?"

"Yeah, sure." I nod.

"By which I mean I want you to ensure that we have enough food left in the fridge by the time I get back to make dinner."

I snigger and give him a salute as I stand from the table. "Ten four, chief."

* * *

Wally's already playing around near the water's edge by the time I leave the house. Today is gorgeous by anyone's standards, but after spending months in the dreary streets of Gotham, I'm grateful for my sunglasses to tone down the saturation. I think my eyes have permanently adjusted to the dark.

The sand on this beach feels different than most other beaches, which probably is why Bruce bought it. It's all-natural, not trucked in from other locations, and feels smooth and consistent underneath my toes as I jog over to where Wally's waiting.

"Good job getting rid of any witnesses," Wally calls to me, eyeing the water a little nervously.

I pull up to a stop and follow his gaze, mentally sizing up his possible concerns before saying honestly, "Bruce wouldn't laugh."

Wally shoots me a look of utter disbelief and digs his toes into the sand, dislodging a few empty seashells. He turns his head to leer at the beachhouse. "But he _would_ silently judge me."

I bite back a snort. Wally's only met Bruce three or four times and yet they already have a fundamental understanding of each other. "Okay maybe," I concede, and then smile at him lopsidedly. "But I will too."

Wally grimaces. "Thanks friend."

"Only if you trip," I clarify.

"Thanks," he repeats, no less sarcastically, and despite my poor intentions I look around for a piece of driftwood to knock on for good luck before he actually tries to take off.

As per the usual, Wally doesn't wait for me to mentally prepare myself for all the ways this could go horribly wrong and instead darts off with a small explosion of sand. I focus on breathing and am proud to say I don't hold my breath when his foot hits the water-and doesn't sink.

"Dude!" I burst out, running up to the shoreline to watch him go. He's little more than a blur, streaking across the ocean and leaving an impressive wake.

"It's working!" he shouts delightedly, his voice almost inaudible at this distance. "I'm doing the thing! Rob, look, I'm-" But then he tries to turn too quickly and loses his forward momentum, splashing into the depths well past the dropoff.

"Wally!" I'm four steps into the water, trying to remember if he can swim or not. Wally _would_ be the guy to plunge himself into deep water without being able to float to save his life. I'm drawing breath to yell again when his head breaks the surface, and the shout turns into a silent exhalation when I see him safely treading water. It's hard to see from this distance, but he seems to be trying to hoist himself out of the water without much luck.

After a few failed attempts, he swims back to me at warp speed, looking slightly waterlogged and disappointed.

"You made it, like, twenty yards," I estimate when he gets back into shouting distance. "That's got to count for something."

He's in the shallows now and doesn't bother climbing to his feet, instead crawling up to where I'm standing and collapsing in a heap, sand sticking to his every wet surface.

"Yeah, okay," he pants, and I wonder if running on water is somehow more physically taxing than running on land, like how running on sand is harder than running on concrete. "But I think I have to start from the edge."

It makes sense. The water will only hold as a solid so long as he doesn't fall in. "I guess," I nod. "Try again?" We should really do more than one trial run of this-the first one could have been a fluke.

He rolls onto his back, a dangerously giddy grin on his face as he suggests, "Do you want to try?"

I stare down at him. "You do realize I'm a normal human being, right?" Unlike some of us, water is always a liquid for me.

Wally shakes his head and climbs back onto his feet. "No, like, you want to come with me?" He makes a little stirrup with his hands and gives me that puppy-dog look that whispers ' _c'mon, it will be fuuun_ ' even when common sense says otherwise.

I don't even pretend to consider it-he knows I'm hooked. I'm not particularly religious, but I do make the sign of the cross across my chest before climbing onto his back. Hopefully someone Upstairs is watching: the Almighty owes me a favor.

"If I end up at the bottom of the ocean," I warn, "I'm blaming you."

And then I climb onto his back anyway.

The first attempt doesn't go too well. I can't see his feet very well from where I'm perched, but it feels like he just gets his legs tangled underneath him and we both go tumbling into the water. I gather from the way he spits at me that it was probably my fault. I'm light, but even the slightest change in weight (and aerodynamics) would be enough to throw him off.

We hadn't passed the sandbar yet, so it's not that much of a slog back to shore. The second attempt seems to go much better until Wally tries to take a sharp turn and drops out from underneath me-feet tangled in water again-and my momentum keeps me sailing a few feet without him. We're going fast enough this time that I smack against the water before plunging in, and it must have looked pretty fantastic because Wally's laughing when I come back up.

"Are you sure you want to keep trying?" I ask when we're back on the beach, examining the reddened skin on my elbow and wondering if I'm going to bruise.

"You know what they say," Wally says briskly, poised in the takeoff position and looking back at me expectantly. "You have to get back on the horse."

"Fine," I grumble. I should really stop letting Wally talk me into things.

Third time's the charm. I'm a bit nervous when we cross the sandbar and find ourselves in open waters, but Wally finally seems comfortable. It's kind of fun if you can bring yourself to relax. He's right-falling off at this point could hardly be worse than crashing the motorcycle. It's sort of like water skiing, except instead of a board strapped to my feet my legs are pretzeled around a speeding vigilante.

Definitely safer.

There are a few boats sharing the water with us, but they're all too far away to notice two kids running on water. I point out one to Wally as being one of those 'celebrity houses: beach house edition' tourboats. Part of the reason Bruce bought so much beach in addition to the massive house was to make sure the boats couldn't get close enough to see in the windows.

Wally puts on a burst of speed, and we're getting far enough out that I can't see exactly where Bruce's beach is. I'm feeling safe enough to sit up a little straighter and look around, trying to pinpoint our location on the map Bruce has hanging in one of the halls. It's a good thing I'm looking around: at this distance I never would have heard the explosion, but the sudden plume of smoke is unmistakable.

"Whoa, slow down." I have to shout to make sure he hears me and still tap his shoulder to make sure.

I can see the corner of his mouth curl up. "I don't think you want me to do that."

Great. He's learned the art of sarcasm. "Fine," I concede. "Just look over there."

I don't dare lift my hand up to point, but he sees what I'm looking at soon enough. Thankfully, he has the sense to keep moving, but you can hear the concern in his voice when he shouts back, "Was that the boat you saw a few minutes ago?"

"Yeah," I nod. It's in the same position, anyway. It has to be the same boat. This is concerning-I'm assuming that, like airplanes, tour boats are used well past their recommended lifespan, but they don't just spontaneously blow up. Normally. If this was an accident, the amount of smoke would indicate that the boat is either sinking or crippled with some sort of engine failure. There are safety procedures about lifeboats, so hopefully the tourists and crew would be okay.

On the other hand, tour boats don't just explode five miles away from Bruce Wayne's beach house while he's conveniently visiting.

"I bet I can get over there in less than two minutes," Wally says quickly.

"No way," I challenge, hoping it will make him go faster.

* * *

My internal count is ten seconds under two minutes when Wally skids to a stop about six feet from the boat. There's no decent way to stop on the water like this, but this landing is better than our other ones. I slide off his back right before he faceplants and manage to keep my head mostly above water, squinting up at the boat's deck.

There are the normal sounds you would expect to hear from a sinking ship, of course: fire hissing and popping, screaming, etc. What's concerning is the gunshots. There are the sharp, loud cracks of some sort of semi-automatic pistol, which is pretty standard, but every now and then there's a close, tight burst that sounds more like a typewriter, but louder. A machine gun of some sort, probably something small.

Civilians don't carry machine guns.

Wally's heard the gunshots as well and looks like he's ready to launch into battle. He gets about three rungs up the ladder on the side of the boat before I can yank him back down.

"Hold up a sec," I say urgently, trying to calm the slightly manic look in his eyes. Maybe the machine gun has him spooked-it's not exactly everyday criminal weaponry-but now is not the time for heroics. "You don't have a mask," I point out sharply. No mask, no armor, no plan. "What are you planning to do?"

"Go up there and kick butt?" Wally blurts, already halfway out of the water again.

"And what if people have cameras?" I point out, pointedly staying right where I am.

"Uh, I'll go super fast." Wally's bordering incoherent and jittery, but it's not about the guns. If it were the guns, then he would be more hesitant about going up there, but he's way too gung ho. It's probably the civilians. Kid Flash and his Bleeding Heart.

I weigh the pros and cons of stopping him and come up with a ridiculously lopsided list. He's right in the sense that we can't just sit here and do nothing, and any attempt to strategize would be lost on him like this. Our best hope is to make the most of his adrenaline and hope he doesn't get shot.

"Okay," I say, automatically blocking out a particularly long machine gun burst. "Fine. Just get up there."

Wally almost looks relieved when I let him go, and then he's a blur up the ladder and over the side railing. I hope he's able to buy me enough time to get up the ladder safely.

Mostly I'm hoping he doesn't get shot.

If there was ever a time to be frustrated about being limited to normal-human speeds, this is it. If I had grabbed my tool belt, I could have rapelled up almost as fast as Wally can climb, but no. My tool belt is back in Gotham, under my bed with the rest of my gear despite Bruce's warnings, and I promise myself that I will never again leave home without it.

I can hear yelling-not screaming-above me on the deck: a female voice with a sort of harsh confidence that makes me hesitantly identify her as a hostile. The gunshots are still semi-regular, so I assume that Wally's still mobile, at the very least.

Careful not to present a large target, I peek up over the side of the railing. The deck is smashed to bits, but there aren't any bodies that I see. The crew and tourists seem to be hiding behind the boathouse, the access to which is blocked by a natural blockade of chairs and tables, many of which are pockmarked with gunshots.

The top of a chair explodes, and I trace the noise back to a somewhat androgynous assailant standing on top of a pile of rubble. S/he looks like something out of a low-budget action film, with a machine gun propped on his/her hip against a pinstriped suit and the smoke from the engine explosion behind him/her.

"It's like one of those shooting arcade games!" s/he shouts, and I'm able to identify the voice as the female I'd heard earlier. "Come out and I promise to miss a couple of times before you die!"

I think she's talking to me for a minute and wonder how she spotted me, but then I notice Wally crouching behind a large chair on the wrong side of the barricade, still managing to look flamboyant even without his neon uniform. He looks well enough, and his hiding spot is probably about as good as we're going to get.

"What took you so long?" he calls to me. Idiot-you just let her know that there are two of us.

Her machine gun swivels in my direction, and I dive behind the chair before she has a clear shot, jostling Wally's arm. "Shut up."

He shifts a little to give me more room behind the chair, eyeing the large distance between us and her. "Any brilliant plans, gadget boy?"

"Zilch, Simon Peter," I snap, pointing at my barren waist and looking through the debris for something to turn into a functional weapon.

"This only works when I have someone to shoot at!" the woman shouts from the helm, sauntering side to side. "I only have so much patience!" Psychopath? Sharpshooter? She isn't exactly staging a robbery.

Wally's pressed close against the back of the chair. "Can't we do something about the civilians over there?" he says urgently. "As long as she's got that gun, they're pinned."

I nod, trying to picture the floorplan of the deck from overhead. The boathouse is conveniently located close to where I think the lifeboats should be, someone just needs to cover the passengers across the deck. The barricade will provide minimal cover, but a distraction would help too. I'm more-or-less helpless at the moment, but if Wally could just buy me a few seconds...My eyes latch onto a fire extinguisher set into the wall behind him. Perfect.

I pry it out of its holder when Wally's shoulder is turned, and then ask casually, "Are you faster than a bullet?"

The question was supposed to be teasing-I know The Flash is-but Wally frowns a little and looks less-than-confident. "Um."

That's nowhere near the 'yes' I was hoping for, but it doesn't change much. Our options are laughably limited at this point. "Right. Okay. You go over there," I point at the boathouse and civilians, "And try to screen them as best you can from the cabin to the lifeboats. Use tables as shields."

Wally looks at me concernedly, probably sizing me up in my dripping swim trunks. Not exactly Kevlar, but then he's no better off. "What about you?"

I hold up the fire extinguisher. It's a bit like a battering ram; nothing I can't put to good use. "I'm going to try and get rid of that gun." And maybe the psycho wielding it, but I'll settle for the machine gun.

Wally nods, and then vaults over the chair, speeding for the back of the boat in a zigzag pattern. When he reaches the barricade, he sends several tables whizzing across the deck like air hockey pucks, and the assailant can't seem to keep track of him with her gun.

She lets off a few bursts at random, and I take that as my cue to quietly crawl out of my hiding place, holding the fire extinguisher tight to my chest so it won't make noise and hiding behind debris and piles of rope. I come across a broken panel full of wiring and take a moment to fiddle with it, disabling the cooling systems of the engine. The engine's already crippled, but I hear a fan shut off underneath the deck, so I know the wiring had some effect. It's an ace in the hole/time bomb, but it's all I can think to do to give us an edge before creeping along.

It isn't long before I'm within arm's reach, but, without smoke bombs or any sort of cover, I'm hardly surprised when she senses me behind her and spins around.

We're almost the same height, and I still have the element of surprise. I only have time for one good swing though, and I use it to take the machine gun. I hit the grip instead of her hand, so while the gun flies over the railing and into the ocean, no actual damage was done. The momentum of the swing carries me a half-step forward, and my following punch is efficiently dodged.

She lets off a few bursts at random, and I take that as my cue to quietly crawl out of my hiding place, holding the fire extinguisher tight to my chest so it won't make noise and hiding behind debris and piles of rope.

It isn't long before I'm within arm's reach, but, without smoke bombs or any sort of cover, I'm hardly surprised when she senses me behind her and spins around.

We're almost the same height, and I still have the element of surprise. I only have time for one good swing though, and I use it to take the machine gun. I hit the grip instead of her hand, so while the gun flies over the railing and into the ocean, no actual damage was done. The momentum of the swing carries me a half-step forward, and my following punch is efficiently dodged.

She's been trained, an observant part of my brain notes. The rest of it is sky high on adrenaline and increasingly confused about why I can't seem to land a hit. In a last-ditch effort, I tackle her to the deck, planning to roll onto my feet, but she scrambles up before me and my smooth tuck-and-roll maneuver is halted by the cool click of a hammer being pulled back.

"Ugh, really." Her hat came off in the scuffle, and she looks more annoyed than winded. The hand holding the pistol is perfectly still.

She's fast.

Professionally trained, faster than me, conveniently close to Bruce's beach house the one weekend of the year he just so happens to be there...

I walked right into this. I don't know what this is, or who she is, but this is a setup of some sort. This sort of thing doesn't just happen, and if I don't do something-

"I don't have time for heroes today," the woman growls down at me. "Don't try to be a hero."

Attempts at intimidation with a tendency for melodrama. I can work with that.

"Too late for that!" Wally shouts across the deck. Idiot-she'd forgotten all about you!

At least the civilians seem to be safe, otherwise Wally probably wouldn't have abandoned them to start running back to us. Either way, he only gets a few steps before the assailant pulls out another handgun from her suit jacket and points it at him. Even though we're at almost a ninety-degree angle, both of her weapons are aimed perfectly. Dual focus. She's done this before.

"Red hair, super speed?" she sneers at him. "You must be"-a Weasley?-"Kid Flash."

Wally's eyes widen, and I feel my stomach sink.

"That makes you Robin, doesn't it?" she sniggers, kicking my knee with her boot. "I'm guessing."

Bruce is going to kill me.

"Lady," Wally grinds out, trying for intimidation. "You're completely out of your league here."

He barely moves, but I see the way her hand tightens on the trigger. "Don't make any moves," she hisses, "Or I'll fire both pistols at the same time. While I might miss you, I'll definitely hit your friend here."

It's a zero-sum game, I might as well go for broke.

"Are you sure?" I drawl, letting my lip curl up in an arrogant smirk.

"Want me to prove it?" she purrs, staring me down over the sights of her gun. I meet her gaze evenly through the sunglasses, hoping she doesn't see my hands tightening on the handle of the fire extinguisher.

With her attention singularly focused on my face, Wally makes a break for it, flickering into a blur in the corner of my eye. She sees it too, and she's distracted just enough for me to slam the fire extinguisher as hard as I can into the back of her knee.

Several things happen simultaneously after that. The guns go off at close range, exploding in my vision and stopping me from seeing whatever slams into my side, throwing me onto the deck.

I blink rapidly, squinting through the light burn to see an afterimage of Wally that seems to disappear several seconds after the weight on my chest goes away. It feels as if I'm hearing things through several layers of cotton, so when I scramble onto my knees I can see Wally's mouth move, but I can't make out what was said.

The sharpshooter is missing a gun-Wally must have disarmed her-and down on her knees, heavily favoring the leg that I hit earlier. Her mouth curls up, and she reaches behind her back to pull out an old-fashioned revolver. Six shots-nowhere near the full clip she had with her pistol, but still more than enough to take me and Wally out. Her mouth is still moving as she stands up, managing to keep her gun steadily trained on Wally and me as she limps to the side of the boat. This was some sort of test, I realize. Either that, or she's cutting her losses. If she was just out to kill us, she would have done it already. I'm disabled and Wally-

Wally has a fairly large bloodstain blossoming on his shoulder. Something must have nicked him.

I'm just starting to regain some sort of ringing when there's a huge explosion below deck. The boat rocks underneath my feet, and the black plume of smoke hides her escape a little too perfectly for it to have been an accident. She must have rigged something below deck with a timed explosive.

Wally races around the deck looking for her, and I stagger to the side of the boat to confirm that the passenger lifeboats are safe. They are. Whatever her plan was, I have the sense that the civilians actually didn't have that much to do with it. Aside from herding them behind the boathouse, she actually had very little contact with them.

No harassment (disregarding the gunshots, of course), no injuries that I saw, no attempted robbery.

Which meant that this had been about us, somehow. She wanted a superhero to engage her.

Wally jogs up to me just as both my ears start ringing painfully.

"You got shot?" I ask. My voice sounds tinny.

"No I don't." Wally's voice sounds a bit better, albeit dazed, and I guess he's high on adrenaline too because he doesn't seem to realize he's holding his arm until he looks down and sees the blood. His face visibly pales, and in that moment he shifts from being Kid Flash into regular, citizen Wally West.

"Oh, h-hey, look at that," he stammers, fingers shaking as he tries to cover the wound up again. "It doesn't hurt or anything. That much. 'Tis a flesh wound."

He's panicking a bit. It's not abnormal. I try to remember from The Binder if he's ever been shot before.

Gunshot wounds are-unfortunately-a bit of a routine for me by now. I shrug out of my shirt and start tearing along the seam, turning it into one long strip that I can wrap tightly around his arm to staunch the blood flow. It really is just a flesh wound, but it still probably hurts like hell.

"Let's go," I say, thinking of all of the emergency painkillers and antiseptics I have in my belt and wishing again that I brought it.

Wally nods. "Righty-o."

"Can you still carry me?" I ask dubiously, eyeing the way he's shaking. If he can't, we're in trouble. I don't see any more lifeboats and we're at least five miles from shore. In an emergency we could take a boat back with the passengers, but that would involve a lot of people getting a much closer look at Wally's face than I'm comfortable with.

Plus, they'd probably insist we take him to a hospital.

Thankfully, this doesn't seem like it's going to be necessary. Wally's already making stirrups with his hands and motioning for me to climb onto his back. "As long as you don't touch it," he says nervously, and then vaults over the railing. I'm vaguely worried for my life until we practically skip onto the water. There's a concerning moment where Wally isn't quite up to speed, but then we're off.

His intuitive grasp of physics is remarkable, but his jaw is set tight and I'm worried about how long he can last before the pain gets to him.

A few passengers wave at us as we zoom by, and I'm just hoping none of them have cameras. The coast guard is probably on their way by now, but Wally's fast, and we're long gone by the time they arrive.

Wally doesn't waste any time with swimming and runs us practically up to the house itself. Under perfect circumstances, I would have liked to disguise our trail a bit, but there's nothing to do for that now.

"Stay," I demand, pointing at a deck chair before running inside the house. Where's Alfred when you need him-I've got no idea where the medicine is. Bruce's bathroom seems like a good place to start and so I go there first. There's nothing stronger than Tylenol in the cabinet over the sink, and I'm eventually reduced to pawing through his shaving kit.

If he weren't already going to kill me for being in this situation in the first place, he'll kill me for sorting through his stuff like this. But, at the very bottom, I find a compact, army-grade first aid kit, complete with gauze, antibacterial wash, and a little vial of painkillers that I'm pretty sure are illegal. Perfect.

"Oh thank you," I breathe, packing everything back together as best I can and running back out to the deck.

Wally is curled around a pillow when I come back, and I perch on the armrest of his chair to be at the right angle to see his arm. The improvised bandage is stiff with dried blood, and I scowl down at the first aid kit. "I really hope this doesn't need stitches."

"Do you know how to do stitches?" Wally asks nervously, very deliberately not looking at his arm and taking long breaths through his mouth.

"I mean..." I trail off as the panicked look renters his eyes. "I understand the theory, but I've never actually done it."

"I hope this doesn't need stitches," Wally parrots softly.

I run my fingers across the bandage, noting with mild annoyance that I hadn't thought to push his sleeve up before I tied it and as a result it is tied over the sleeve of his T-shirt. "I'm going to have to pull your shirt up to look at it, okay?"

Wally's mouth opens slightly and then snaps shut again. I loosen the knot a little and start scooting it up his arm. "I need you to hold the tourniquet in place."

Wally obediently pulls the bandage tight around his shoulder, the difference being that I can actually see the wound now. It's not that bad, really. Bruce has had much worse. It really is just a graze: a relatively neat gash gouged out of his skin. It isn't so much bleeding as oozing, but I'm still careful not to touch it and instead dump a liberal amount of antibacterial wash into a cloth in my hand.

Wally eyes me nervously. "Is it going to hurt?"

"No, not at all," I lie smoothly, lifting the bandage a little higher and pressing it against his skin.

"Oh, okay," Wally says, reassured for the fraction of a second it takes for the antibiotics to start stinging. His whole body tenses and he lets loose with a string of curse words that wouldn't have sounded out of place in a Gotham alleyway.

"Relaaax," I hum, rubbing his shoulders.

"It hurts!" Wally grits out.

"I'm making it stop hurting," I say reasonably, keeping constant pressure on his arm. Bruce talked to me like this when I broke my wrist and it made me feel better, but it doesn't seem to be working on Wally quite as well.

"No you're not!" he yelps, the hand that isn't holding the bandage white-knuckled around the armrest of the chair.

"Just shush for a minute, okay?" My tone comes out a little harsher than I meant, but his panicked demeanor is contagious.

Wally quiets, but every muscle in his body is tense as I carefully lift the cloth up to look at his mess of an arm.

"It's not actually as deep as I thought," I sigh. "I think you'll be okay." I realize that I might be taking more of his agency away than he's comfortable with and ask slowly, "But we can go to the hospital, if you want?"

Wally shakes his head vigorously. "Nah, I heal fast. Just make it stop hurting."

"We have some painkillers." I shake the vial before holding up the fabric roll. "In the meantime I'm just going to bandage this up nice and tight, okay?"

"'Kay," Wally says meekly.

I dab the gash with more antibiotics and press a piece of gauze against it before starting to wrap the bandages around. Wally's off in his own little world, probably coping with the pain. This wasn't what I intended to happen when I brought him out here, of course, but it still feels sort of like it was my fault. I should've had a better plan for boarding that ship. Without Wally, I'd probably be dead.

By the same logic, without Wally I wouldn't have been on the boat in the first place and therefore wouldn't be dead, but still. I was the one who ultimately couldn't defend himself.

"Hey," I say, jolting him out of whatever meditation he's doing. "Um. Thanks."

"Thanks for what?" Wally asks blithely, green eyes blank and pleasantly confused.

 _You risked everything, your secret identity, your life, to help some random citizens, and then threw yourself in front of a bullet meant for me. How can you not know what I'm grateful for?_

"You knocked me out of the way," I say awkwardly, cinching the bandage tight around his arm and concentrating on my fingers instead of looking at him. "So I'm thankful."

To keep the moment from turning into one of those sappy Kodak moments, I tug hard on the bandage when I knot it. The misty look in his eyes disappears when he grunts.

"Hey," he sighs, voice tight with pain as I tie the knot. "What are friends for?"

I hold out a few of the pills. It's the least I can do. "Do you know the psycho gunslinger?"

Wally swallows the pills dry and shakes his head. "No, I thought she looked more like one of your guys, i.e. homicidal maniacs who recently escaped from an insane asylum."

He had me there. I had wondered the same thing, but there had been no escapes recently. She was something new, and her debut into the supervillain world was starting off better than most-she already had the secret identity of one superhero sidekick in her back pocket. God knows what kind of trouble she could cause with that.

"I've never seen her," I say. We'll have to find her, and quickly. Bruce will have to get involved.

Wally doesn't look nearly as concerned as he ought to be and lets his head loll back against the chair with a quiet, "Huh."

I guess the painkillers work.

The front door opens and I whirl onto my feet. It could be the woman from the boat-she could have followed our wake trail-and with Wally incapacitated like this...

But the footsteps are far too heavy for her, which leaves only one plausible option that seems almost worse.

"Oh no," I groan.

Bruce-innocent as can be, sticks his head around the corner, probably following the sound of my voice. "I forgot my briefca-" He trails off mid-syllable, his eyes immediately going to Wally's arm before boring into me.

"Dick," he says, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "Care to explain?"

"I would love to," I breathe.

He doesn't give me a chance, instead stepping around me and crouching down by Wally's side, saying ruefully, "I've barely been gone a half-hour and suddenly Wally is bleeding out on the back porch?"

This translates to: 'You screwed up, Dick, and I am not happy.'

I swallow the lump in my throat and manage to say brightly, "But on the plus side, the fridge is still full?"

Bruce's lip twitches like he's fighting back a smirk, and that gives me a little hope. Bruce is always rational-he knows this can't have happened by accident. He'll give me a chance to explain, but right now his attention is on Wally, as it should be. He prods the bandage gently, checking my work.

"Ow?" Wally says foggily, squinting down at Bruce like he doesn't quite recognize him.

"Apologies," Bruce says to him, and then confirms over his shoulder, "Gunshot wound at close range?"

How he can tell that without looking under the bandage is beyond me, and this is not the time to ask. "Yessir."

"By whom?" Bruce's voice is icy. The man has a paternal streak the size of Canada-he never takes very kindly to people hurting things under his care. Half the criminals in Gotham know this personally.

"We don't know," I say solemnly. "Crazy chick with a gun."

Bruce nods, and would have demanded a full description from me on the spot, had Wally not chosen the moment to declare fuzzily, "But I can walk on water!"

Bruce stands up and places a hand on Wally's shoulder. "We'd better get you to a professional doctor."

Bruce has a connection in Gotham General Hospital who won't ask questions, but that's still a bit of a drive away, and we'd have to wheel him in past witnesses and probably talk to his parents.

"We c'ld jus' go to The Flash?" Wally slurs.

Bruce looks at me, and I nod. It makes sense. Barry should know what to do, and it kills two birds with one stone by letting us take Wally back to Central City to recuperate.

"Very good," Bruce says to Wally. "I'll have the car brought around. Dick, a word."

I slink after him into the kitchen, expecting a lecture. He calls the driver first, but then swivels around to face me.

"I assume you weren't behaving like a regular civilian on the beach when Wally got shot, were you?" he snaps.

"No Sir," I say quickly. No point in lying.

"Explain."

"Wally and I were out running on the water when we came across a crippled tour boat."

"Both of you?"

"I was on his back."

Bruce's lips twitch again, but his eyes stay hard as he nods for me to continue. I'm suddenly horribly sure that this will come up again later.

"When we got close enough to help, we heard gunshots and decided to help, so we climbed over the side of the boat."

"Who were the assailants?"

"Just one." I describe the woman in as much detail as I can remember, but Bruce doesn't know of her either.

"We'll find her," he says gruffly. "Did you exhibit any abnormal behavior?"

"No," I say. He means acrobatics or superpowers-things that the public would notice. "But Wally did."

"You had your glasses, what did he have?"

I wince. "Nothing. She knew we were Robin and Kid Flash."

"Any casualties?"

I can hear the car rolling up the gravel driveway. "No."

Bruce nods decisively, nowhere near as enraged as I thought he'd be. "We'll have to keep an eye on Wally for a while-make sure he doesn't do anything to draw attention to himself."

"Okay," I agree. Keeping Wally out of trouble seems like taking a fish out of water, but what else can we do?

"When we get back to Gotham I want you on full reconnaissance on this woman," he continues briskly. "You will track her down, and then we will take care of it."

I nod again. He turns to leave, and I have to ask, "Bruce?"

He pauses.

"Was this a test?" I say quietly.

"No, Dick," he sighs. "This was not a test. And that's what concerns me."


	14. The Batkick and the Batdog

**Wally West**

I honestly didn't think I'd be arrested.

Sitting on the long bench that lines the perimeter of the holding cell, I fold my arms protectively, slouching against the brick. Against my head, the cold wall sends a shiver down my spine, but I don't care at this point. I've never been claustrophobic, but the enclosed room is unsettling. One wall is open, made of stereotypical prison bars, which remind me too much of Rob's fence. I've been staring out into that open hall, where there's better lighting and the occasional passerby, ever since I got in here. It feels like that was forever ago, but realistically, it probably has only been half an hour.

The only other guy in here is taking a nap on the bench opposite to me. Letting out a snore that leads into a cough, he grumbles to himself. He's curled up on his side, like he's used to sleeping on benches and this is an upgrade, and looking very content with himself. He looks slightly familiar, but I can't place him, so I end up just staring creepily, watching his chest rise and fall with each snore.

* * *

"Hey, kid? Did you want a phone call? To call your parents or something?" a lady cop with a black pixie cut asks me, resting an elbow on the bars. She's not bad looking; I'd try flirting with her if I was in a brighter mood. She's pointing with her thumb behind her to a hanging cord phone.

I nod, drifting over to her. But I'm not calling my parents. I guess word of my incarceration traveled fast, even to the forensics lab. Imagine the person who told Barry that his nephew had been arrested. He had stopped by earlier, clearly disappointed, and most likely has already told Mom and Dad.

She slides open the barred door, letting me stand out in the hall, handing me the receiver. I look at it blankly.

"The numbers are up here, kid," she grins, patting the hanging base.

I knew that. I'm just having trouble thinking straight.

Focusing on the keypad, I dial the number that I can't believe I remembered, but happy I did, and listen to it ring. The lady cop watches, clearly too interested.

When Rob answers, I realize I'm holding my breath and let it out in relief.

"Yeah," I start, wondering how to describe my situation. "So, I might be going to prison."

"What?" Rob asks, astonished.

"Well, they kind of stuck me in a holding cell," I pause as a door down the hall opens, the dogs' barks echo. A cop emerges, two german shepherds in the lead. "And I used my one phone call to call you."

"Why do I hear dogs?" he says, just as one of them sniffs my pant leg. I almost grin and bend down to scratch him behind the ears, but they continue on.

"They have dogs here," I inform, glancing back to the two dogs, who are now sitting next to the cop, who's talking to the receptionist. "They're cute but vicious german shepherds. One of 'em's giving me the stink eye."

"Why are you in a holding cell?" Oh, great. I glance at the lady cop, who's still absorbed in my conversation. At least she's only hearing one side. I know enough that I shouldn't admit to being guilty in front of her.

I cough to try sounding nonchalant. "I was brought in for questioning this morning to wrap up the case on the garage explosion," I carefully explain. "They didn't like something I said and now they suspect something's up."

There's a moment where I can practically hear Rob thinking over the line before he speaks, "So, are they holding you for twenty-four hours or did they charge you with something?"

"They think I'm lying. I tried explaining to them that I'm a psychic, but they didn't buy it," I joke. "I'm going to need you to come down here and prove it to them."

The lady cop nods sarcastically, obviously amused.

"Uh, no," Rob responds, unamused. "Answer my question."

The grin slides off my face. "They think I blew it up on purpose with an explosive. And maybe they also think I tried to kill my parents. And they think I stole some chemicals that you need a license for. Honestly, I don't remember a lot that happened."

"Why didn't you just explain that in the first place?"

"That I don't remember anything?" I trail off. Because then they'll launch an investigation. That'll lead them to Barry and my chemistry teacher and I'll be in an even deeper crap pile. I can't explain that with lady cop here. Realizing that my heart rate has increased a ton, I stop for a second to calm myself. "Right now I'm a suspect for arson, possession of illegal explosives, attempted manslaughter, and being ridiculously good-looking. 'I don't remember what happened' isn't going to cut it." That last charge might not be a thing, but it makes me feel better.

I've been both rightfully and wrongfully accused of too many things today, which has lead me to think about it too much. Like the manslaughter thing. It never occurred to me that I might be endangering my parents with my recklessness. Now other people are analyzing my mistake, trying to see if I had any motive. No, I didn't try to blow my parents up. But the rest? The rest I'm actually guilty of, and that scares me to death. Sure, I didn't actually intend to make explosives -at least, I don't think I did- but I did blow up the garage, so for all I know, I could have. Guilty. The cops are just one interview away from figuring out that I stole from the school. Guilty. And if they dig in further, they'll find other activities done by my alter-ego. For which I'm guilty.

"Wow… um," Rob says and I can't recognize his tone. "I'll see what I can do?"

"Please, Obi-Rob Kenobi, you're my only hope," I jive.

Lady cop somehow looks both entertained and confused, now leaning against the wall next to me so she can see my face.

"Calm down, Skywalker." His voice is completely level. "There's no evidence. It's not like you have cans of gasoline stashed in your room, right?"

"No?" I wrap the coils of the phone cord around my finger, turning away from Lady Cop. I put away the gasoline, didn't I?

"Right?" he demands vigorously.

"Right! Right!" The cans should be in the garage. Hopefully.

"Dude, there's nothing I can do from my end." He sounds concerned enough, but I had hoped for something more substantial. That I could hold onto. I feel completely out of control; like I've been falling out of an airplane and asked Rob for help and all he could say was "You'll just have to sit tight."

"I'm _incarcerated_ , Rob!" I enunciate every bit of the terrible word.

Lady Cop brings her fist to her chest like she's having a heartfelt moment, but I know she's just mocking me.

"If it gets that bad Bruce can get you a really good lawyer, but that's about all we can do. Sorry." And he hangs up.

"Thanks a lot," I murmur into the dead phone, the only response being the annoying buzzing tone.

"Was that your boyfriend? Did he just hang up on you?" the lady cop asks.

Shooting her my 'I'm pissy, don't talk to me, especially after that comment' look, I thrust the receiver at her, holding it until she takes it and hangs it up for me. Slouching back down on the bench in the cell, same position, I hear the barred door slamming shut and locking.

The guy across the room is mumbling now. "Aye...like impressions."

I smirk. I recognize him now. I met this hobo in an alley with drunk Rob, who had been working on making me feel better. Rob's right, I just need to sit tight. Doing anything at this point would be stupid; just wait twenty-four hours.

Following the hobo's example, I roll over on my back, knees up, hands cushioning my head from the hard bench.

* * *

My parents don't come until the next day. As soon as they get here, they're whisked away into an interview room, leaving me to sit outside it. The room is on the other side of the department, a different hall, with an actual window. It gives me a view of the side street, which is in a cold shadow from the building.

I'm hungry. I haven't eaten. But leaving would be bad.

Wrapping my arms around my knees, I stare out the window, imagining what kind of conversation they could be having in there. 'Sure, Wally's a good kid, but he's totally a mad scientist.'

"Hey, kid."

I know that voice. "Hey, Barry." I'm prepared to act ashamed of myself, but when I turn to face him, he's smiling, which I can't help but mirror back.

"How're you holding up?" Barry asks, resting his arm on top of the back of the chair.

I shrug. "I'm fine," I respond, unable to believe that he doesn't want to bring up his crime-fighting terms.

"Don't worry about your parents. I can't imagine them saying anything but good things." Barry offhandedly points behind him to the door with his thumb.

"I guess, but that doesn't stop me from being nervous," I admit. "I just want to get out of here."

"What's done is done. Worrying will just make you sick."

I nod, turning my head down.

"Dinner tonight at six?" he suggests.

"Sure, sounds good, but I'll have to run it by my parents." It occurs to me that Barry might have other intentions with this dinner; that's probably where he's going to talk about this.

"Run?" Barry smirks. No!

"It wasn't intentional," I smirk back.

Barry stays with me until my parents get out and no one smiles.

The detective that had questioned them is an older man with graying brown hair. His forehead wrinkles and the crow's feet are so plainly noticeable that I instantly dread growing old.

He's the guy that blatantly told me he thinks I tried to murder my family.

"You're free to go, kid," the detective growls.

What is it with the cops and calling me 'kid'? I look to Barry. He meets my gaze and I can tell he makes the connection, but he doesn't seem concerned.

I almost write off the detective's poor attitude as dismissal, but something about his demeanor gives me the impression he still thinks I'm guilty and he'll do anything to prove it.

At that point, as I follow my parents, I make a promise to myself. As I stand behind my dad signing the release forms, I decide I'm going to be more careful. As I trail behind my parents leading out the door, I know this isn't something I want to lose. I could've. I've done too much damage. It's not safe. From that crazy gun chick to the garage explosion to anything Kid Flash related. Nothing like this will happen again… I hope. But you never know. It probably will, but it's the thought that counts.

* * *

After a wonderful afternoon of eating and freaking out about what exactly Barry has to say to me, I take my time walking to his house in Danville. As part of my new life plan: being more careful, I'm not going to run there anymore. I'll either walk or ask for a ride.

It not a big deal; Barry's house isn't too far, but since I'm used to getting there in less than two minutes, walking seems especially slow. I end up humming most of the way, kicking along a pebble.

Trotting up to the front door, before I even raise my fist to knock, the door opens. At the sight of me, Iris raises her eyebrows and pushes aside her bangs. It occurs to me that I'm late, but Iris doesn't look the least bit upset.

"Hey Wally, sit down," she suggests, holding the door open wide, allowing me past. "The meatloaf is almost ready."

"I thought I was late." I slip out of my sneakers.

"You are. Half an hour. Lucky for you, I forgot to put in the meatloaf," she chuckles, rushing off back to the kitchen as I wander into the dining room, where the table's already set. It's not shocking to see that the center is piled with food.

Peeking into the room to see me eyeing the food, Iris calls, "Barry! Your nephew is here. Stop him from eating until I finish making the meatloaf."

Strolling in from the hall behind me, Barry expresses earnestly, "I think you know why I invited you here."

I shrug offhandedly. "That's a dramatic way to put it. But, yeah. You're going to tell me that it's bad to get arrested, right?"

Barry smiles. "Pretty much. But there's more to that." He struggles for a second, searching for words. "It's… _really_ bad."

" _Really?_ " I reply sarcastically, not seeing his point.

"Um, yeah," he rushes; I can practically see his brain speed up, trying to find the words. In that split-second, I spot the biscuits on the table and I reach out for one. "I'm going to have to bench you for a while."

I freeze, feeling like I've accidentally swallowed my tongue, and look at Barry, who's displaying a perfect poker face, shaking his head. "What? Bench me?" I ask, half expecting this to be a joke. But, really, I probably deserve it. I messed up big time.

"I mean, I need you to lay low for a while."

"The meatloaf's done!" Iris cheers from the kitchen.

I sit down. Barry sits across from me. "Why?" I ask.

"You got arrested. And later, I overheard Detective Howells discussing a stakeout outside your house."

"That's unfortunate."

"You really need to be careful."

I'm just about to tell him that careful is my new middle name (Wally 'Careful' West), when Iris emerges from the kitchen with four trays of meatloaf.

"Did you tell him?" Iris asks Barry, setting down the trays and sitting down.

"What?"

"Detective Howells has been looking into the identity of the Flash, subsequently, Kid Flash. You've brought yourself to his attention. You fit the profile. It's only a matter of time before he finds the proof for his hunch. We need to keep it just that: a hunch."

And just like that, everything's worse than I thought.

"Close your mouth?" Iris suggests. My mouth's open. I close it.

"That's why you need to lay low," Barry finishes.

Wow. For once, I can't think of anything to say. I can be careful to the ends of the earth, but one slip up and this Detective Howells will snatch it up.

"Can we eat now?" Iris complains.

I take the opportunity to bounce back with a witty comeback, "Says the only one at the table with a normal metabolism."

I get a sympathetic giggle from Iris.

Barry just buries his meatloaf in ketchup.

* * *

Insisting on walking home, I head out down the sidewalk, back to kicking a stone. It's the same stone. This is pathetic. Acting normal is boring.

My phone beeps from my pocket. It's 'Dick' with a text. ' _Hey, bad news.'_ Time to be reckless again. Texting and walking. So much for being careful.

Well, I guess this is a good a time as any to bring up my problems. ' _me too me too! my uncle says the police are watching me'_

After I hit send, I come to the realization that I'm not longer kicking my stone. Glancing behind me, I don't see it. Aw. I settle with making sure I don't step on the cracks, adjusting my stride. My phone beeps. ' _Yeah, they are. Really closely too. You'll have to be careful.'_

Watching me closely? I spin around in a circle, spotting a car parked on a side street. Barry had said that, too. He said they were conducting a stakeout outside my house. They could be following me. Detective Howells could be in that car, watching me. ' _WAHT DO I DO?'_

I increase my pace. Oh crud, I stepped on a crack. My phone beeps. ' _Just don't do anything stupid. They're looking for a link between you and Kid Flash.'_

I type out ' _WHAT. WHY?! I'M INNOCENT.'_ and send.

My phone beeps. '… _no you're not.'_

I stop walking to type, '… _.'_ I vibrate my thumb faster to express the proper amount of distaste. '… _...cant the government tap these things?'_ I haven't forgotten about being cautious.

Violently exhaling when I notice that I had stopped walking on a crack and had been standing on it the entire time I wrote the text, I resolve to play a different game. It's called 'try not to think about how bored you are'. My phone beeps. ' _Bruce has an encrypted phone satellite. It's all good.'_

My thoughts come out in the form of a reply text, ' _oh my god he would'_

After shuffling a block, my phone beeps. ' _But seriously you can't go out as Kid Flash for a while.'_

This response requires capslock. ' _BUT JUSTIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICE'_

I write it as a joke, but honestly, it's how I feel. There's nothing to do and nothing means as more to me than feeling like I'm doing something smart and useful and meaningful.

My phone beeps. ' _You'll figure something out.'_ I can't tell if he's trying to make me laugh or not. This feels reminiscent of our phone call earlier. This time, I imagine I'm falling out of a helicopter into a fiery volcano and Rob's just like, 'Dude, you'll totally figure something out.' He doesn't talk like that, but whatever.

I end up typing, ' _gee thx'_

It occurs to me that the Detective Howells' car could still be following me, so I spin around again, taking in my surroundings. Satisfied after not finding that stalker car, I stare at my phone until it beeps with Rob's reply. ' _I have faith in you. DON'T get arrested again.'_

That's going to be hard if I constantly have a stalker. I'm going to have to stop all my illegal activities such as saving the world, punching out bad guys, and impersonating the cops in spandex. Once you've gone spandex, there's no going back.

My response is ' _I promsie nothing.'_

* * *

"I'm bored out of my mind! We need to come up with a solution to this problem now!" I shout, bursting into the forensics lab. I would be more careful, as per my new life plan, but it's 9:30 pm and only Barry stays here that late. The overhead lights are off and Barry has his desklamp on. The lighting makes him look really tired but also really determined.

Barry waves me over, where he has a couple of files and papers spread across his desk. He's rubbing his chin, combing through the same papers again and again. I stand over him for a good thirty seconds before he says,"Boomer's got a new toy. I'm breaking down the chemical components to find out where it came from. All I got is that it's some sort of explosive chemical."

Boomer's his nickname for Captain Boomerang. He's a crazy Australian thug with an obsession with boomerangs, hence the name. It's probably not a big deal that he got a new boomerang, but Barry doesn't like being oblivious when he can help it.

I lean over him, pointing to one of the papers, detailing the skeletal formula. "That's nitroglycerin, used in smokeless gunpowder."

"Yeah, but I'm not sure where he's getting it," he mumbles, running a hand through his hair and leaning back in his chair.

I offer, "He might also be using nitrocellulose?"

Barry leans back forward, his head thumping onto the desktop. He lets out a frustrated moan. I'm not being helpful at all, so I slip in, "Do you have a sec?"

Turning his head to the side to look up at me, he gives me a pathetic nod.

It's been two terrible, super slow days of confinement to my house. I guess it didn't have to be confinement, but I'll admit to not being comfortable with leaving my house what with a cop posted outside. What's it going to take to get them off my back?

Not only that, but Flash seems to be getting along fine without me. I can't let him get used to it. He might like it.

"You faced Captain Boomerang without me?" I ask, acting more offended than I actually am.

Sitting up, he swivels his chair to face me. Unmoved, Barry logically provides, "Having you join me again would be suspicious. The cop outside your house would be asked to check up on you, and not finding you, they would have evidence. But, I do get what you're saying, we should probably do something because not having you with me is also suspicious. After all, when you're clearly in your house, Kid Flash is nowhere to be seen."

What I need is someone to be Kid Flash for a little bit in order to prove Kid Flash and I aren't the same person.

"What if I find a double?" I burst. "Like a stunt double in a movie."

Barry puts on a soft voice to break it to me. "You're not in a movie, Wally."

"I know!" I roll my eyes. My life would be an awesome movie. It starts with a bang and there's all that secret identity drama, the thrilling action scenes, and all those awww moments where I'm just amazingly handsome. I would be portrayed by James Dean. Oh yeah, he's dead. Chris Pratt is good too.

"Is that a real idea?" Barry asks thoughtfully, folding his arms. "Because I think we can make that work."

Honestly, it was a real idea, but I don't have time to be offended because then I think of the perfect candidate for my stunt double.

* * *

"At the tone, please leave a message. If I'm not watching Netflix, I might get back to you." The recording plays. I pace back and forth in front of the bed in my room, anxiously waiting for the beep.

Beep. "Dang it, Rob, I thought you were nocturnal," I say, trying out my Batman impersonation, lowering my voice into a rasp, hoping it'll urge him to pick up his phone faster. But then, I don't think Batman calls him Rob. "Pick up, this is important. I know you're-"

"This had _better_ be good," Rob snarls. And he reminds me so much of my dad that I might've just stopped my pacing to whimper.

Glancing at the alarm clock, which displays 10:24 pm, I try to sound polite when I inquire, "Were you sleeping?"

"Yes, actually," he lashes in that same voice."What's wrong?" In any other tone, that question would be reassuring, but he just sounds like he wants me to go away. And I think about hanging up, but I need him.

If he was sleeping… I thought he has the dynamic duo thing every night. "What about patrol?"

"We took a night off because I needed to _sleep_ ," he complains. I guess that could explain his poor attitude. I can let it slide.

"Oh. Right," I sympathize.

With what I know about Batman, I can see him believing that there's no time for sleeping because justice and such. Flash is so different; he gives me many opportunities to just stay home, but I insist I come along. Whether Flash knows it or not, he needs me. Batman probably feels like it's his duty to mentor Rob and so sleep comes second (or tenth) to patrols. Man, Rob's probably exhausted if he doesn't want to help me. Maybe I _should_ hang up...

I hear some shuffling over the phone of what I can only assume is bedsheets. "So what's the problem?" he exhales.

"What?"

"Wally West!" he shouts. My mind was somewhere else. I was planning on hanging up.

"Oh!" I quickly regain my purpose. "Right right right. So Barry and I had an idea for how we could get those cops to leave me alone."

"Spill," he grumbles.

"I need you to dress up like me for a night."

"I'm hanging up now," he announces. He probably thinks this is a joke just like Barry did.

Fumbling with the phone, I almost drop it. "No wait!" I stress. He needs to know the whole thing before passing judgement."I'm serious! It's the only way we can get this to work!" I struggle to relate it to something he'd understand clearly. "I mean, isn't Bruce ever under suspicion for never being in the same room as Batman?"

"Lots of people are never in the same room as Batman, Wally." I guess that's true. With that logic, Barry could be Batman.

"Okay okay," I admit, hurrying to keep his attention. "But if the police saw me with Kid Flash, then they would have to admit that he and I aren't the same person!" I have no idea how that's going to work, not having thought ahead that far, but Rob doesn't need to know that.

Rob makes a less than enthusiastic noise. "I don't think you realize how unalike we actually look." I don't think Rob realizes that he's the only one in the category 'young males who know my alter ego and my civilian self'.

As for looking like me, I doubt anyone will be close enough to notice things like eye color, nose shape, height, or lack of freckles. "But you could dye your hair!" I suggest. While that would be suspicious in itself, I just kind of want to see Rob with red hair.

"I am not dying my hair. I'm going to bed," he says shortly.

"Rob, no! Don't be that guy," I plead, wracking my brain for a reason for him to care. "C'moooon. I need your help."

He sighs and I must have said something right because he adds, "I could wear a wig? And if you had an old costume I could take in the seams so it'd fit me?"

I'm sure I could find an old suit somewhere, but they're usually destroyed before I grow out of them. I'm on my seventh. The first couple have been burned, but I think I still have the fourth one. Rob will have his own friction-proof suit. I don't know what good that'll do him, but… I'm going to make him dress up as me for Halloween.

"You can sew?" I smile because I don't doubt it.

"Shut up," Rob grumbles.

"Okay. Fine," I dramatically moan. "When are we going to do this?"

"Umm," Rob drawls. "Not tomorrow and definitely not tonight."

I let out a forceful sigh. "Okay, but soon, right? It's really bugging me not to be able to go out."

Not only is there nothing to do inside, but I can't stop freaking out about the cop investigation. However, I'm not about to admit that to Rob.

"Fine, fine, we'll do it Thursday, okay? Does Barry know about this?"

He might as well have said 'Is there an adult I can talk to about this immature plan?' I don't have much of a problem with that, as long as something is being done to set me free from the confines of my prison.

I tell him, "Barry knows. I'll give you his phone number or something and you guys can talk." It's going to mostly be a Robin and Flash plan anyway. Me helping would probably tip off the cops.

"Can I go to sleep now?" Rob whines desperately. Feeling abandoned, I'm about to respond with a rude comeback before realizing he probably is really tired and he already agreed to help me.

I settle with, "I guess."

"Thank you," Rob stresses.

Feeling enormous gratitude for the guy who just saved my butt and asked for nothing in return, I respond, "No, thank you." My phone beeps, signaling the end of the call.

I drop my head and sit on the edge of my bed. He didn't hear me. He probably thinks I selfishly called him and put him on a stupid mission. Tossing my phone next to me, I rest my head in my hands.

Before getting ready for bed (or, more accurately, four hours of video games), I shoot Rob a text with Barry's cell number.

* * *

Drifting back into awareness of the world in the morning, I slowly come to the conclusion that my text alert noise woke me up. Lazily letting my head fall to the side on my pillow, my clock reads 6:40. And only one person I know would text me this early, even on a school day. This feels like payback, I idly grin.

I stretch out my tingling arm-I must've slept on it again-I pull my cell free of the charging cord and hold it to my face. ' _Thank you for not telling him my name.'_

Instantly knowing that he's referring to Barry, I smirk. Rob seems to think 'careless' is my middle name, but I do think of some things. When Rob had first visited Central City, I had needed to tell Barry about him knowing my identity, but when he curiously asked Rob's, I took the time to consider that maybe Robin wouldn't want the Flash to know. I had told Flash he didn't need to know, it's not a concern. Flash had dropped it.

I text back, ' _of course man ur name's DICK i did u a favor.'_

Falling out of my sheets and onto the floor with a thump, I nonchalantly stretch, reaching above me as I lay on the ground.

* * *

When Thursday comes, I have no idea what's going on. I've been included in the plan brainstorm session over text, but the main thing I collected was that I wasn't in charge of much action and that Rob's getting a dog. I could tell that Rob was used to being told what to do instead of being asked for his opinions and ideas. I still don't know what's going on.

What I do know is that inspecting Rob dressed up in my costume makes me really happy.

"Wow," I comment. "You really can sew." As I walk around him to analyze every possible angle, I can't stop grinning. He looks like a total goof, as I probably do when I wear that. I'm honestly surprised at the skill that he adjusted the costume. When I had found the old thing, I held it up and guessed it could easily hold two Robins. Squished Robins, yes, but two Robins nonetheless.

He'll be a good double. Luckily, Rob will probably be moving too fast to actually see too closely and they probably won't notice the five inch difference in height or the bits of the red wig that look like carpet or the rocket boots. Not to mention that he looks nothing like me.

Rob reddens almost enough to match the stupid wig and mutters, "Shut up."

I stop in front of him, trying to make reassuring eye contact, but he's looking down at himself. "I mean it looks good!" I protest.

"It looks neon," he grimaces, pinching a bit of it near the insignia.

I retort, "Neon and awesome!"

"Uh-huh," Rob hesitantly agrees. "So I think these propulsion boots will work okay?"

I want those rocket boots. I don't care if I can run faster. Rocket boots are amazing.

"You look like Starlord," I sigh, seething in jealousy.

When he says, "Sure," I can tell he doesn't know who I'm talking about. "Does the wig look okay?"

You mean 'does the chunk of carpet on my head look okay?' Yep.

"You are my spitting image," I lie. Backing up to give it another once-over, I only notice the same blaring faults. Something flits in my chest, so I fold my arms and grin. "Expect, you know, shorter. And skinnier."

Rob must be feeling the same way I am because he exhales before sarcastically replying, "Thanks. I need your goggles."

"What?" I play dumb. I hid them. I hoped he wouldn't ask. The goggles aren't just something I'll loan out. They're mine. I need them.

"Goggles?" Rob insists, extending an open palm.

They're mine, Rob. They're the difference between awesome or vulnerable.

"I'll be going pretty fast," Rob logics. "And your goggles are quintessential to the Kid Flash persona."

From the uncovering the goggles on the day I got them to Barry outfitting them with special screens for thermal imaging and such, I've always used them. They're part of costume, sure, but I always have them with me, just in case. They're my precaution, my backup plan, and my shield. Behind them I'm invincible. Without them, I'm just Wally.

"The goggles are sacred, Rob," I plead, trying to appeal to his emotional side. I'm about to launch into the goggles' backstory, but he stops me.

"Do you want this to work or not?"

Logically, it makes perfect sense, so I swallow my argument, leaving me with an uncomfortable wriggly sensation in my gut. I slowly exhale, breathing, "Yeeesssss."

Diving underneath my bed to search for where I hid my goggles, my mind races through all the ways Rob could mess them up. Rob could take a spill, shattering the lenses. He could simply drop them as soon as I hand them to him. Slowly falling, falling, smash! As it hits the floor the pieces disperse, breaking in places never meant to be separate. My fingers brush against the plastic and I snatch the goggles, shimmying out from underneath the bed.

I trace the circular frames with my finger, careful not to smudge the lenses. "Be very careful with them," I say.

Rob nods. Rob takes them and spins them around his finger. I don't realize that I gasped until he smirks. "Not a scratch, I promise," he sighs, shoulders shaking, holding in his laughter at my dramatic reaction. Casually slipping them on like he's done this a million times before, he says, "So you know the deal?"

Slowly letting out a breath I just realized I was holding, I remind myself that this is Rob, he wouldn't be _that_ insensitive. I nod. "Yep. Eight o'clock."

"On the dot." Now it's my turn to hold in my laughter as he struggles to keep up his suave little strut in those oversized rocket boots. "Don't be late," he warns, unlocking the window and sliding it up.

Really? Like I'd be late after all the work I put into this plan: bare to nothing? Rob's perching on the window ledge when I retort with, "Don't you be late!" Then I plead," And don't scratch my goggles," as he leaps off and out of my sight. With a sharp grunt and a violent crunch from the bush he must've flattened, I race to the window and look down at him.

"Whoops," he yells. I can't see him, it's too dark. I can't even find his shadow.

"DICK CLIVE GRAYSON! You did not-!" I whimper, searching the dark desperately.

"My middle name is John," he laughs and I catch a glimpse of a fleeting figure dashing to the road and a little spark ignite as I see myself speed away.

* * *

Bolting down the staircase, I skip over most of them and smush my face against the cool glass of the living room window. There he is. I'm not sure if the cop is actually Detective Howells or one of his lackeys with it being night and all, but it doesn't matter. The main point is that there's a cop in front of my house who's supposed to be watching me. That's all we need: an eyewitness. It's not blatantly a cop car, that would be too obvious, but I'm not an idiot; I know normal cars don't have a cage-like divider in separating the front seat from the back seat.

I'm aware that with all the lights on in here, I'm clearly visible from the street. I melt into the armchair on my right, still glancing out the window. Any minute now. My eyes flash (ha) to the analog clock ticking on the mantel above the fireplace. 7:57. Okay, three minutes now.

I imagine whoever's in the car perking up at my sudden appearance and analyzing me closely. Suddenly very self conscious, I consider doing something. But I don't want to move; that could ruin everything. No, stay. If I move and turn on the TV, I could miss it and this perfect opportunity would be wasted. Instead, I recognize that I'm just sitting there in the chair and that no one does this for fun. This is so unnatural and forced. I can chill. Just chill. Leaning back, I try to relax and not consider all the ways this plan could go wrong and how stupid and weird of an idea it was. I mean, what was I thinking?

Barking erupts and I turn to the window. Is this it? I remember someone mentioning the dog. And there it is. A playful black lab bounds into my yard before taking off across the street. Something in my chest turns to lead when I see Flash and Kid Flash chase after it. I look like a moron. Well, I guess that's not me, but wow. Flash seems completely normal, except for the fact that he's chasing a dog. I cringe. Kid Flash, however, looks like he's having trouble. In little bits and starts of speed, he looks completely ridiculous. My head drops against the glass with a thunk.

* * *

When Rob comes back, I completely expect some comment about how I'm finally on time for something, but he just slides to a stop in my backyard before his beautiful faceplant as the rockets disengage.

Hurrying out to meet him, I question his choices of crimes he could've staged.

Chasing a stray dog seems like a joke compared to a lot of the serious incidents Flash and I come across on a usual basis. It struck me almost as if Rob doesn't take us seriously. I can hardly believe that Barry went along with this.

However, then Rob brings up his new pet lab and I dub it the Batdog. He returns my goggles unscathed, at least as far as I can tell.

The only thing left for me to do was see if it worked. As far as I could tell, it did. Looks like I'm in the clear. For now. Let's see how long this lasts.


	15. Not Exactly The Circus

**Dick Grayson**

One would think that, with Bruce Wayne's connections and Batman's slightly-compromised privacy ethics, finding one gunslinging psychopath in a supposedly-small pool of psychopaths worldwide wouldn't be that hard. It turns out that without a name or photograph it's basically impossible. After a few days, I'm reduced to googling old news articles, hoping that her stunt on the ship wasn't her first appearance. If my lack of results are anything to go by, it seems to have been. Then again, I have no way of knowing what her past marks were; she could be a petty jewelry thief for all I know, in which case searching for past boat hijackings was going to get me nowhere. Google shows approximately 27,000,000 hits (found in .6 seconds), and I'm a one-man team at the moment. There's a limit to how much I can do.

But, at the same time, giving up isn't an option. Even if I wasn't already worried about Wally, Bruce had made that clear. He also made it very clear that this woman is My Responsibility; while he was as supportive as ever, he just didn't have the time to sit down next to me and read outdated news articles. My only consolation is that she's probably in the same situation as me-it's not like she has Wally's name either-and even that doesn't make me feel much better. All it means it that I have to find her first.

I'm slogging through a string of aquatic thefts in Pittsburg, trying to see a correlation and steadfastly refusing to address my geometry homework when my phone buzzes on the desk. Bruce has somehow rigged the Batcave to have fantastic cell reception. Caller I.D. on the screen says it's an unknown number.

I pick up but don't say anything, instead wedging the phone between my ear and my shoulder. I manage to keep reading the article onscreen pretty smoothly until Wally drawls by way of greeting, "Yeah...So, I might be going to prison."

I almost drop the phone. If this is his idea of a joke I am going to kill him. "What?"

"Well..." He has the grace to sound at least mildly abashed. "They kind of stuck me in a holding cell. And I used my one phone call to call you."

I'm really hoping 'they' is the police and not something more sinister. At least that would explain the phone number and the strange background noises.

"Why do I hear dogs?"

"They have dogs here." _I never would've guessed._ "They're cute but vicious German shepherds. One of 'em's giving me the stink eye."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Why are you in a holding cell?"

Wally coughs surreptitiously, like he's hunching over the phone, but then says lightly in an 'oh, you know,' sort of tone, "I was brought in for questioning this morning to wrap up the case of the garage explosion. They didn't like something I said and now they suspect something's up."

I mentally groan. Definitely the police. I hadn't implicitly told Wally to stay out of trouble, but I would have assumed that, what with being shot and having a gun-toting supervillain be aware of your secret identity and all, it was heavily implied.

And _yet._

I scowl at the screen and mentally run through what Wally had just said. 'They didn't like something I said' basically translated to 'I mixed my stories up and accidentally incriminated myself,' which is never good. He probably bit off more than he could chew and started talking about details that only the perpetrator would know. The fact that he wears his heart on his sleeve and _was_ actually responsible for the explosion definitely wouldn't help him lie consistently.

"So, are they holding you for twenty-four hours or did they charge you with something?" I ask. This is an important distinction. The former means they have no proof, the latter means you screwed up big time.

"They think I'm lying," Wally whines. He's probably a bit scared. "I tried explaining to them that I'm a psychic, but they didn't buy it." _You screwed up big time,_ I think. "I'm going to need you to come down here and prove it to them."

"Uh, no." Bad idea. Did he seriously just ask me to prove it to Central City police that he's a psychic? "Answer my question."

Wally sighs explosively, and I wonder a bit belatedly if perhaps he has someone standing over his shoulder listening in. "They think I blew it up on purpose with an explosive." 'It' obviously being the garage. Great. I didn't realize that investigation was still ongoing; it was almost a year ago. "And maybe they also think I tried to kill my parents."

I blink. That escalated quickly. What the heck did you say, Wally?

"And they think I stole some chemicals that you need a license for. Honestly, I don't remember a lot that happened," Wally finishes in a rush. He sounds utterly wretched, and I wonder how long he'd been penned up in a holding cell before he called me.

"Why didn't you just explain that in the first place?" I inquire. He had plausible deniability on his side-he had legitimately given himself a concussion. Memory loss would have been completely believable; even somewhat expected.

"That I don't remember anything?" Wally snorts derisively and then heaves in a breath, and I realize that he's seriously freaked himself out with this. "Right now I'm a suspect for arson, possession of illegal explosives, attempted manslaughter, and being ridiculously good-looking. 'I don't remember what happened' isn't going to cut it."

I wince at his forced humor and take a look around the batcave. Kind of guilty, guilty, innocent...and I'm just going to disregard that last comment. I suppose it's different for Wally, who scarcely has conflicts of morality. He's probably always been on the same side as the police, and to have them accuse him of attempted murder, especially the attempted murder of his parents...that's pretty heavy. I can see how that would freak a guy out. First this woman, and now the police might figure out his secret identity. He was having a rough time.

But, at the same time, he needs to get a grip. He's just digging himself deeper by spewing this all out to me on the phone.

"Wow...um. I'll see what I can do." I'm trying for sympathetic, but I think the most I achieve is vague support. You're such a great friend, Dick. You can't even calm your friend down when he's stuck in jail.

"Please, Obi-Rob Kenobi, you're my only hope," Wally giggles.

I feel a bit better. At least he's still got his sense of humor about him, if not his wits.

"Calm down, Skywalker," I tease, and then say rationally, "There's no evidence. It's not like you have cans of gasoline stashed in your room, right?"

There's a disturbingly long pause before Wally says, "No?" very softly.

Oh my God, I had been joking.

" _Right?_ " I insist. Please agree please agree.

"Right! Right!" Wally clammors.

I sink back into the armchair, trying to ignore the way my heartbeat slows down. What am I going to do with you?

"Dude," I sigh, trying not to let my resignation bleed through too much. "There's nothing I can do from my end. You'll just have to sit tight." It sounds like they haven't formally accused him with anything-they can't hold onto him forever.

"I'm _incarcerated_ , Rob!" Wally shouts, obviously frustrated. I inappropriately think of Lloyd Dobler and have to bite down on my knuckle to keep myself from quoting Say Anything back at him. I doubt he's seen the movie, and I'm not about to admit I have.

"If it gets that bad Bruce can get you a really good lawyer," I say instead. "But that's about all we can do. Sorry." An idea strikes me, and I hang up before he can say goodbye. In retrospect, this seems a bit rude, but it's too late now, and it's not like I can call him back.

Wow. I am _such_ an awful friend.

But, for better or worse, it seems like I'm all he's got. I tap the spacebar impatiently on the computer, waiting for it to pull up all of Bruce's global wireless connections. I swear the man has half of the world bugged, including but not limited to Commissioner Gordon's office, several politicians' houses, and my homeroom, so it's not all that surprising to find a folder labeled 'Central City.' There are only two audio feeds, one from the Flash museum, and one from the police station. Excellent. I queue it up, slipping on a pair of headphones and turning the volume down just a little so I can just barely register when people are talking. It makes a nice background noise as I go back to reading about boat accidents.

I have to find her first.

* * *

I don't hear anything from Wally that night, but I do catch a snippet of conversation the next morning before I leave for school that his parents are there to pick him up, so I assume he's okay. I personally would've been kind of embarrassed about being holed up in a police station and want to give him some space unless he wants to talk. I'm still focused on the sharpshooter.

We have an hour or two between dinner and when we go out for patrols, and I normally spend that time cramming all the homework I put off all afternoon or watching stupid videos on youtube, but today I'm struggling with a pencil and a piece of paper in the den, the police audio feeding to me through my phone. I don't draw, but I wanted to try and sketch the assailant's face before I forget it completely-I'd noticed the details getting fuzzier over the last few days. I've got about half of her nose done when Bruce walks in, silently peeking over my shoulder. I know he can draw pretty well, but he doesn't criticize my attempt or offer to help, instead sitting across from me and lacing his hands in his lap.

"Wally was detained yesterday?" he prefaces idly.

My eyes flick up to his. I hadn't told him this. Sometimes it really sucks living with the Batman. You literally have no secrets.

"Yeah." I slip from dual-focus into tri rather easily, simultaneously concentrating on the drawing in front of me, the quiet conversation coming through my earbud, and Bruce in front of me. "Something about that explosion at his house."

"Hm." Bruce puts a finger to his lips, but we're both thinking the same thing. We've both read The Binder. "Do you think it's coincidence?"

"Do you think it's coincidence that Wally was seen without his mask and then a few weeks later is arrested?" I clarify, pulling out my earbuds. Bruce nods. He hasn't told me what he thinks yet-he's waiting to hear my opinion. I sigh and reluctantly put the pencil down. "I think this woman was a one-act show. I can't see her working with police in some sort of conspiracy. Besides, as far as I can tell, he got himself into this one."

Bruce nods again approvingly. "I agree. But the fact remains that he's being very carefully watched."

"I know." I hold up the phone morosely. I'd heard them send a squad car to his block about an hour ago to relieve the cop that'd been tailing him most of the day.

"You ought to warn him."

"I told him to lie low," I say defensively.

"I know." Bruce's eyes are laughing, even if the corners of his mouth barely twitch up as he deadpans, "But I think Wally could use a reminder, don't you think?"

I nudge his shin underneath the table and scoff, "He's not _that_ bad." I don't _think_ he's that bad anyway. Still, it seems fair to give him a heads up, and I fire off a quick text: ' _Hey, bad news.'_

Bruce sniggers to himself and spins my piece of paper around to look at it right-side up.

My phone chirps. Wally's tone is evident even over text-you can tell which words he rushed and which ones he actually took the time to type. When we first started texting, he tried to use correct grammar to impress me, but he lapses back into chatspeak on occasion and I think it suits him better.

' _me too me too! my uncle says the police are watching me'_

' _Yeah, they are.'_ I type back. ' _Really closely too. You'll have to be careful.'_

"This is the woman you saw?" Bruce asks, scowling down at the paper.

' _WAHT DO I DO?'_

"Uhh," I stall Bruce, buying enough time to type out, ' _Just don't do anything stupid. They're looking for a link between you and Kid Flash.'_ "Yes, it is."

Bruce frowns, his expression not one that I recognize. The man has many different types of frowns.

My phone goes off again, Wally's all-caps message almost as indignant as my ringtone: ' _WHAT. WHY?! I'M INNOCENT.'_

I wait a minute to see if he'll catch the error. He doesn't. I sigh, struggling to convey sarcasm over text. ' _...no you're not.'_

A little bubble pops up next to Wally's icon, indicating that he's still typing. I glare at it when it doesn't go away within a few moments, wondering if he's actually typing or if it's a glitch of some sort.

Bruce taps the corner of the page, careful not to smudge the lead. "She's vaguely familiar."

"I know, right?" I agree. It's been bugging me too. I'm tempted to chalk it up to my horrible artistic skills, but the more I look at it, the more I'm convinced that I've seen her somewhere before.

Which, of course, makes the fact that I can't find her even more annoying.

Wally finally sends his message, and I don't know why I'm surprised to see that the majority of it is a line of periods. ' _...cant the government tap these things?'_

He's finally thinking ahead for once. I'm oddly proud of him. ' _Bruce has an encrypted phone satellite. It's all good.'_ I turn to Bruce. "You have an encrypted phone satellite, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Right, thanks." I nod and don't explain. He doesn't ask me to.

' _oh my god he would'_ Wally quips. He knows Bruce well.

' _But seriously you can't go out as Kid Flash for a while.'_ I type, trying to sound firm. It's for the good of everyone, including yourself.

Wally's response is almost instantaneous. ' _BUT JUSTIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICE'_

I snort and Bruce looks up in surprise. ' _You'll figure something out.'_

' _gee thx'_ That was almost sarcasm. The feeling of pride increases.

"You can't remember where you saw this woman before?" Bruce asks, tapping his knuckles against the edge of the coffee table.

"No," I admit. "I'm not even sure I ever saw her, there's just something kind of familiar about..." I gesture vaguely at the entirety of the page. "Her general...face...area."

Bruce scowls, but it's not an 'I'm-angry' sort of scowl. It's more of a 'I-wonder-how-fast-we-can-comb-the-international-picture-database' scowl. He looks up at me. "Are you ready to go out?"

"Yeah, just give me a sec."

Bruce makes for the elevator, and I fire off a quick, reassuring, ' _I have faith in you.'_ and then feel the need to add, ' _DON'T get arrested again.'_

The phone dings as I'm sliding down the fireman's pole, and the last thing I see before I suit up is Wally's unrepentant, ' _I promsie nothing.'_

* * *

Two days later and I am whipped. Bruce and I have discovered a new drug den in the slums, and while I'm all for taking out local heroin distributors, I was also a little annoyed with their timing as their appearance coincided with a massive English paper and math test. Not to mention I was still no closer to figuring out who the mystery boat shooter was.

I must have tripped on the way to the door or something, because Bruce puts a hand on my shoulder, effectively stopping me in my tracks. He's barely pushing, but I get the feeling that he's just about the only thing keeping me upright. He just says "Sleep," and I nod kind of hazily at him before shuffling up the stairs instead of down the fireman's pole. Alfred has to nudge me into my room, shutting off the light behind me, and I just sort of collapse onto my bed, wriggling out of my jeans and under the blankets as efficiently as possible. I'm asleep before nine o'clock.

And awoken barely an hour and a half later by my phone going off. My ringtone is obnoxiously loud-I have a habit of getting sucked into things and missing important ' _Where are you_?' texts from Alfred and Bruce, so the volume is cranked as high as it can go whenever I'm not in school. I jolt upright, biting back several profanities, and for the life of me cannot find the darned thing to shut it off. I have a vague recollection of kicking my jeans off, and end up hanging halfway off the bed, rummaging in a pile of dirty laundry, before I finally yank it out just as the caller starts going to voicemail. I'm about to throw the phone back on top of the pile when I notice that it's Wally.

I answer, cutting off whatever message he was leaving when I growl, "This had _better_ be good."

Wally squeaks. I must've sounded worse than I thought. "Were you sleeping?"

"Yes, actually," I snarl, not even bothering to reign in my tone as I drag a hand down my face, struggling to wake up. "What's wrong?"

"What about patrol?" Wally asks meekly.

"We"- meaning me-"Took a night off because I needed. To. _Sleep._ " I want to sleep. I want to sleep so badly. Static in my head. Can't focus properly.

"Oh. Right."

Right. "So what's the problem?" I grumble. I'm awake now. I might as well help. Synapses struggle to fire as I roll into a sitting position. I'll doze off again if I stay lying down.

"What?" Wally says blearily.

"Wally West!" I shout. I _swear_ if he has woken me up for nothing…

"OH!" he yelps. "Right right right. So Barry and I had an idea for how we could get those cops to leave me alone."

"Spill," I sigh. I do not have the patience at this hour to deal with this.

I blink. 'Patience at this hour'? It's _10:30_. This is still in the realm of normal teenage activity. I'm being ridiculous.

I'm totally prepared to cut Wally some slack, maybe even apologize, but the next thing out of his mouth is "I need you to dress up like me for a night." and nope. No. I am so done.

"I'm hanging up now," I sigh. It's not even remotely close to Halloween. What is this?

"No wait!" he cries. "I'm serious! It's the only way we can get this to work! I mean, isn't Bruce ever under suspicion for never being in the same room as Batman?"

Yes. But then there's Photoshop. "Lots of people are never in the same room as Batman, Wally," I chide.

"Okay okay," he admits, "But if the police saw me with Kid Flash, then they would have to admit that he and I aren't the same person!"

I dig the heel of my hand into my eyes. "I don't think you realize how unalike we actually look."

"But you could dye your hair!" Wally bursts out.

"I am not dying my hair," I say flatly. "I'm going to bed."

"Rob no," Wally whines. "Don't be that guy."

What guy? The lousy friend who hangs up on you (again)? Because that's me to a T, Wally.

"C'moooon. I need your help," he wheedles, and I cave. I think I'm trying to redeem myself. The guy got shot for me, the least I can do is consider his plan.

I exhale explosively and dig the heel of my palm into my eye. "I could wear a wig?" I suggest. "And if you had an old costume I could take in the seams so it'd fit me?" Depending on the level of impersonation required, there's a jetpack in the Batcave that could maybe get me up to something close to Wally-speed.

"You can sew?" Wally asks wonderously.

I wince. If he makes _one_ joke about my masculinity. "...Shut up."

"Okay," he says hurriedly. "Fine. When are we going to do this?"

I'm not even sure what 'this' is. Something with costumes…? That's going to help Wally? I get the sense that he doesn't have it completely planned out himself. I would hope that if I were more awake, I would have already had a half-decent plan cobbled together from the sparse details he's been dropping, but at the moment it's just static and jumbled trains of thought.

"Umm," I trail off, mentally trying to plan out the next few days. Bruce will want me to go out tomorrow to make up for tonight. We've got the last of those drug dealers to root out. "Not tomorrow, and definitely not tonight." I can't do anything else tonight. I'm basically a zombie. I sound like a broken record even to myself.

Wally huffs and says impatiently, "Okay, but soon, right? It's really bugging me not to be able to go out."

A few quiet nights confined to my bedroom sounds fantastic right about now, but I sluggishly dredge up memories of the few times Bruce has seriously benched me for a few days, and I remember the antsy feeling that came with it.

"Fine, fine, we'll do it Thursday, okay?" Two days from now. Should be ample time, and if I ever get to sleep tonight, I have a chance of being mildly coherent. It dawns on me that if Wally doesn't know the plan, maybe someone else does and can fill me in. "Does Barry know about this?"

"Barry knows," Wally says definitively, clueing me in that the minutia of the plan, if not the general concept, came from Wally's mentor. "I'll give you his phone number or something and you guys can talk."

'Or something.' Okay Wally. Sounds good to me.

"Can I go to sleep now?" I try to ask lightly, but even I can hear the tone of desperation in my voice. I'm normally great without sleep, but we're nearing the fifty-hour mark and there's a limit to what I can do. Even Bruce starts to get a bit rough around the edges around sixty hours.

"I guess," Wally huffs, and even though he sounds indignant I am overwhelmed with a feeling of blissful gratitude.

" _Thank_ you," I moan, and drag my finger over the 'end call' button. I make sure to turn my ringtone off this time.

* * *

I wake up around six-thirty the next morning and stare down at my covers, confused as to the location of my phone. It's a pleasant sort of confusion though-this is the first time in months I've gotten eight hours of sleep, and I have enough time before school starts to wake up slowly. I shuffle around a bit until I hear it thunk onto the floor.

There it is.

' _4 new texts.'_ I swipe across the screen and fall back onto the pillows. One's from Bruce, sent at about three in the morning, saying that he may have a lead on my mysterious woman. Interesting-I thought he was chasing heroin dealers. The second is from Wally, giving me a phone number that happens to be responsible for the other two texts. It's got to be Barry. It feels a bit weird to refer to him with that sort of familiarity, but I'm not about to call him The Flash, especially when we're interacting like this. The first text is a friendly ' _Hi Robin, Wally says you're willing to help us'_ introductory text. I stare at it for a minute, processing.

He called me 'Robin.' Which means that Wally didn't tell him my name. I guess it just never occurred to me that he might not know. Wally and I have been friends for months-I assumed that my secret identity would have been one of the first things he'd share with his mentor. The fact that he didn't…

I drop my phone against my forehead. For all that Wally seems to throw his own safety around on a whim, he's apparently thought ahead enough to protect mine. I wonder if I would have behaved the same way, if Bruce didn't already know about Wally and Barry. I honestly don't think I would have-Bruce and I don't have secrets.

Well. That's a bit of a lie. I'm sure Bruce has his, but I don't.

The second text from Barry is in that same loose tone: ' _Why don't you let me know when you're free and we can talk? PS-call me Barry. Wally says you know.'_

Maybe they don't have secrets, then. Wally has told Barry that Bruce and I know all about him, but he hasn't insisted on Wally telling him who I am. Had our positions been reversed, I know I wouldn't have been as laid back. To not know would have felt like being held at a disadvantage. I don't know, maybe that's just Bruce's paranoia talking.

' _I'll be free this afternoon around three,'_ I text back. ' _Were you looking to meet up in person or just text?'_

And then to Wally, ' _Thank you for not telling him my name.'_ Because I really am thankful.

I'm buttoning up my school shirt when Wally texts me back. ' _of course man ur name's DICK i did u a favor.'_

I roll my eyes and don't reply, instead tucking the phone into my pocket where I'll feel it vibrate if it goes off again.

Bruce is sitting at the breakfast table already when I step into the kitchen, sipping from a mug of black coffee and looking far more awake than anyone who can't have had more than two hours of sleep has any right to be. There's a half-eaten bowl of oatmeal in front of him, and Alfred passes me a full bowl of my own when I sit down.

"You found something out about the shooter?" I ask curiously, drizzling syrup over the top.

Bruce's eyes flick up from his newspaper. "Yes."

I pause, my spoon half-dug into a bowl of strawberries. "...Are you going to tell me?"

"What do you remember about your other performers in the circus?"

I stall out, scattering berries over the top of my breakfast. "Um. Not a lot." I have fragmented memories of trapezes and flying, my parents and my room in the trailer we used to live in, the ringmaster giving me treats on my birthday, but the other performers are a complete blur. They changed pretty regularly, and I was too young to keep track. "Why?"

He sighs and folds the paper up, setting it to the side and waving off Alfred's attempts to refill his coffee. "Her face was familiar to me, so I began looking at photographs of our public appearances together, since you too felt as if you'd seen her before." He pulls a file folder from underneath the table, and I have to admire the man's presentational segues-here I was thinking we were just having a normal breakfast talk. Inside the folder are two pieces of paper, held together with a paper clip. He spins them around for me to see, and the contents of my stomach do a lazy flip when I realize what they are.

The first is the rough sketch I did of the shooter. The second is a newspaper clipping of the front-page article about Bruce adopting me. The picture they'd chosen to print underneath the headline was one of us standing at the graveyard, me looking very small and hollow in Bruce's shadow as we both look down into the open graves. It had been a huge funeral, given my parents' social and monetary status. I found out a few weeks later that Bruce paid for the whole thing, of course.

"Do you see?" Bruce asks gently, nudging me out of my memories.

I blink a few times and take a mental step back, forcing myself to look at the picture objectively. It only takes a few moments.

"There," I say, pointing at a bystander in the crowd. Even given my lack of drawing ability, you can tell they're the same woman. "...But I don't know who she is."

Bruce nods. "It's not a name, yet, but it's a much better lead. No offense intended." He touches my shoulder when he stands up to take his bowl to the sink. "I think she must be related to the circus somehow. Keep looking, alright?"

"Okay," I say faintly, picking halfheartedly at my oatmeal. I've lost my appetite again. Bruce gives me a sympathetic look and takes the newspaper article with him when he leaves the table, and that helps.

"Oh, Bruce," I say, remembering. "I won't be around Thursday night."

"Alright," he agrees easily, and almost gets to put his own dish in the dishwater before Alfred swoops in like a hawk and plucks it from his hands. It's a running joke between them that Bruce isn't allowed to do any of the housework, no matter how hard he tries sometimes. I can't help smile a little at the exchange, and Bruce looks pleased, his eyes twinkling a little as he says, "Don't stay out too late."

* * *

Thursday creeps up faster than I anticipate. With the newspaper article, we're able to run the shooter's photo through a few databases, hoping to turn up a driver's license or something. It's been running for two days and we have nothing so far, but that's pretty normal. These things take time.

In the meantime, I'm texting back and forth with Barry and Wally and learning that the Flash Dynamic Duo is, in many ways, a far less stressful operation than the Bat Team. Gotham is very different than Central City in a lot of ways, just like Batman and The Flash are very different commanders. To Batman, I am a soldier. I'm important, valuable, and appreciated, but at the end of the day I am a mere knight on the chessboard. With Wally and Barry, it's different. There's more of a team dynamic, somehow. It's not that my opinion is any more or less valid, it's the delivery that's different; less like a war counsel and more like a think tank.

Within two days we've got a plan worked out. Bruce knows that I'm working with the Flashes, but respects my privacy and doesn't pry. With the database still churning, there's not much we can do about the funeral sharpshooter, and criminal activity is down since we busted the last drug overlords last night. Bruce has no problem giving me the night off, but he raises an eyebrow when I ask him to drive me to the local animal shelter.

"What's going on, Dick?" he asks when the car pulls up.

I wipe my palms against my jeans, thinking that there was probably a better way to ease him into this. "I'm getting a dog. And I need a guardian's signature on the forms."

"You're getting a dog," Bruce echoes blandly, in the same tone of voice he'd use if he was making a note of the weather. "Why?"

"For the Flash thing tonight," I say. "We need a stray dog."

Bruce raises an eyebrow skeptically. "Why would you need a stray dog?"

"Classified," I blurt, practically leaping out of the car. This plan is so immature, I can hardly believe Barry was serious. On the other hand, I suppose it doesn't have to be dark espionage all the time-it's just rather jarring to swing from one extreme to the other, and I _definitely_ don't want to explain it to Bruce. He'd laugh at me.

He looks like he's debating laughing at me anyway, saying over the top of the car, "Is this going to be a permanent pet situation?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so." The humane society loaning me one of their animals overnight was contingent on me adopting it.

"What are you going to name it?" He smirks as the sliding doors open and the receptionist I talked to on the phone waves me over, her jaw dropping when she recognizes Bruce.

"I'm going to name him Spot," I fire back, and have the satisfaction of seeing the corners of his mouth twitch.

"Can he be black?" he asks quietly, just for me to hear.

I roll my eyes indulgently. "Why not."

* * *

About four hours later and I'm one black mutt richer and standing in Wally's bedroom, showing him the old Kid Flash suit I modified and the jet pack boots I'd 'borrowed' from the Batcave. I feel vibrant and ridiculous (the wig doesn't help), and am once again seriously questioning exactly what it is I'm doing. I mean, who just happens to have a wig lying around that looks exactly like his hair? Wally claimed it was from a Halloween costume, which didn't do much for my remaining scraps of dignity.

"Wow," Wally coos, walking in a slow circle around me and making me even more uncomfortable. "You really _can_ sew."

I flush. "Shut up." It had been a pain to do it too-Wally and I have next to no measurements in common, so I'd ended up having to rip almost every seam out and piece the whole thing back together. It probably would have actually saved time to make an entirely new uniform from scratch.

"I mean it looks good!" he splutters.

"It looks _neon,"_ I huff.

"Neon and _awesome!_ "

I resist the urge to facepalm. I suppose I can hardly talk, with my yellow cape and red chestpiece, but still. It's different. Red is practically black in the dark anyway. "Uh-huh. So I think these propulsion boots will work okay?" Bruce and I had confiscated them a while ago, and I wasn't entirely sure how much fuel they still had in them. I had done a small test run right outside the Flash museum, after dropping the dog off with Barry and they had run fine, but we didn't know for sure.

Wally obviously doesn't share any of my concerns, and his voice is almost reverent as he utters solemnly, "You look like Starlord."

I don't know who that is. "..Sure. Does the wig look okay?"

"You are my spitting image," Wally intones, taking a step taking a step back to appreciate the entirety of my getup. He crosses his arm across his chest, a boyish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Except, you know, shorter. And skinner."

"Thanks," I sigh. Tell me something I don't know. "I need your goggles."

Wally gives me a look like I just offered to shoot his childhood pet in front of him. "What?"

"Goggles?" I press, holding my hand out expectantly. "I'll be going pretty fast. And your goggles are quintessential to the Kid Flash persona."

"The goggles are sacred, Rob," Wally whines.

I insist. "Do you want this to work or not?" I can't help it. I'm dressed in neon for this guy, the least he can do is lend me his goggles for a half hour so I don't get bug guts in my eye.

Wally crumbles, practically puddling onto the floor with a resigned, "Yeeesssss." He wriggles over to his bed and rummages underneath for a minute before pulling out the red racer goggles. He pinches his lip between his teeth before offering them to me, saying solemnly, "Be very careful with them."

I nod, unable to resist spinning them around my finger the minute he hands them over. The stricken look on his face makes me stop, and then say earnestly, "Not a scratch, I promise." I slip them over my head, wincing at the way the elastic tugs on the wig, which in turn tugs on my real hair. "So you know the deal?"

Wally nods. "Yep. Eight o'clock."

"On the dot," I agree, picking my way across his room to climb onto the windowsill. The boots make things complicated. "Don't be late."

"Don't you be late," Wally fires back. "And don't scratch my goggles!"

I'm already airborne by that point and land more heavily than I intended in some bushes by his house. It must have sounded pretty ominous, because Wally's vibrant head pokes out of the window above me, silhouetted by the light in his room.

"Whoops!" I shout teasingly.

He takes the bait, roaring out of the window, "DICK CLIVE GRAYSON you did NOT-!"

"My middle name is John!" I cackle, and then stomp my foot against the pavement to activate the jets in my boots.

* * *

In retrospect, there were a dozen things that could have gone wrong with our plan. Wally could have been late, Barry and I could have been early, the police could have missed it, or I could have lost control of the Starlord boots and turned into Robin Roadkill wrapped around a telephone pole.

Miraculously, nothing happened. The plan worked perfectly, which is how you knew that it wasn't a Batman plan. Batman plans couldn't possibly go wrong, but inevitably did. Flash's plans had a thousand loopholes, but seemed to pull themselves off without a hitch. Bruce just has horrible luck, I guess.

"Stray dog?" Wally asks incredulously after I pull up to a halt in his backyard after leaving the dog, and the cops, with Barry. I guess he'd been left out of the loop for that bit.

"We couldn't stage a robbery!" I point out, pressing the button on my hip that stops the jetpacks. I thud onto the grass, hoping I don't wake his parents. The lights in his house are all off, and none of them turn on at my awkward landing, so I figure I'm good. "And it seemed silly not to have anything for us to do!" Besides, chasing after a stray dog seemed like a very Flashy thing to do. Good publicity and all that jazz.

Wally apparently doesn't think so. He cocks his hip and raises a critical eyebrow at me. "But _really?_ I have a reputation to uphold!"

"On the plus side, we adopted a dog?" I offer, tugging the wig and the million pins holding it in place out of my hair.

Wally blinks. "Really?"

"Yeah, the animal shelter wouldn't let me borrow it unless I was willing to adopt it," I shrug. "Bruce wants to name is Grendal." Its name is Spot. Nothing will convince me otherwise.

"Really?" Wally snorts. "Not Batdog?"

"Hush. I didn't scratch your goggles." I untangle them from the wig, and pass them over.

"Well done, Richard!" Wally crows, slapping my back proudly.

"Thank you, thank you, I'm here all week." I feel like I've done my good deed for the day. I should be getting brownie points.

"No, seriously," Wally says, tone suddenly uncharacteristically somber. "Thanks."

"Anytime," I say blandly. It's true. But at the same time… "This was pretty ridiculous though, even for me. You should stop getting yourself into trouble." I brandish the wig at him for emphasis. Really, I am so glad I kept Bruce in the dark on this one-he'd never let me hear the end of it. The dog was bad enough.

"I'm doing my best." Wally has the grace to look mildly abashed, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "Trouble just seems to find me."

"I know," I say mildly. "Just try to stay inconspicuous for a week. Can you do that?" I realize that it's a bit like asking a fish to survive on land for a few days, but I have hope.

Wally gives me a salute. "Aye aye Captain."

"Perfect. Now help me unzip."

* * *

Barry must have detoured into Gotham after ditching the cops, because Spot is nestled in his new dog bed by the stairs when I creep through the front door. Bruce is reading in the lounge, and I creep up behind him and start reading over his shoulder, wondering if he heard me come in. I like to think that I'm pretty sneaky, but I resignedly acknowledge that he's known I was there the whole time when he asks me if I'm done with the page before he turns it.

"How was your evening?" he asks mildly.

"Fine," I answer, just as vaguely. "Yours?"

"Alfred agrees with me that Spot is not an acceptable dog name."

"His name is Spot."

Bruce hums in a 'challenge-accepted' sort of way and shifts into a more comfortable position in his armchair. "Have you been thinking at all about Haly's Circus? The databases still haven't finished."

"I've been a little busy," I confess. "But I asked Jack to give me a list of all past employees. They're touring in Europe though, so it might take a few more days to get here."

"Good job," Bruce says. I'd be lying if I said I didn't grin a little. He looks up at me. "Do you miss it?"

"The circus? Eh," I shrug. "I mean, it's not like I completely gave up my life of adventure, right? Or the spandex, for that matter. What's to miss?"

Bruce rolls his eyes, but the fond expression's still there when he turns to the next page.


	16. Fast, but Not Speedy

**Wally West**

He almost has me convinced that I reached the answering machine when he says, "Hi, this is Speedy." He starts out low, like he's trying to intimidate me. "Green Arrow can't-"

"Hey Roy," I interrupt his spiel sweetly, pinning my cell between my ear and shoulder, flipping on the TV and gathering pillows from around the room to prop my head up.

"Hey," he exhales sharply, clearly pissed that he didn't get to finish.

As I make a mountain of pillows, I mention, "What're you doing this weekend?"

I attempt to come off as nonchalant, but Roy just says, "Uhm."

To get Roy to do you any kind of favor, you need to give him a good reason, so my strategy is flattery. Compliments are good reasons to give someone a favor. "Because I was kind of hoping you could help me out with a thing… You know… in a Robin Hood sort of way." That's a compliment, right? Comparing him to the great Robin Hood? All archers want to be Robin Hood.

Falling back into the fluffy fortress with complete satisfaction, I switch my attention to flipping through the limited channels.

"Funny, Robin just called me like ten minutes ago," Roy draws out. "Is this the same thing?" Oh no, abort! Abort! He brought up Robin. Revert to the backup strategy: deny everything.

"Whaaaat?" I deny. "No, totally not the same thing." I shake my head even though he can't see it as I struggle to focus back on changing channels. "Nope, two totally different things. But can you help?"

"I don't even know what's going on," Roy admits.

"I just need you to help me do a thing," I insist. "Please? It's for a friend!"

Roy's not moved. "...I think you and Robin need to sort this out."

"But… but…," I stammer, trying to come up with a good excuse.

"Sort it out!"

This is not what I called him for. I drop the remote, sitting up for one last try: "But this is such a cool thing and justice and I really need your help!"

If I can do this by myself, maybe he'll forgive me.

"Just call Robin back," Roy demands. "You're a big boy. Don't drag me into this."

My face grows hot and I choke out, "This has nothing to do with him!"

"Uh huh. Call me back when you've figured it out."

And the line goes dead.

* * *

Earlier that week:

I've been stuck in the house all day. With 'stuck', take out the t and add a s to the end. That's how my day is. It sucks.

Then the 'Big Bang Theory' ringtone plays. Seeing that it's 'Dick', I answer the phone with my face.

"Hey, Wally," A solemn voice greets.

"What's up, man?" I ask, immediately sensing something's wrong.

"You know the woman on the boat?" He starts, hesitantly.

"Psycho chick?" I ask, recalling that time I was shot surprisingly casually. "Yeah. What about her?"

"Her name came back up on Bruce's database. Annie Elle or Miss Elle."

I grin and let out a snort. "It's a pun? Like missile?"

Practically hearing Rob roll his eyes at me, he monotonously replies, "Yeah, Wally, it's a play-on-words. She used to be a sharpshooter at Haly's Circus."

"Where?" I try to confirm, half confused and half wondering if I heard right.

"The circus where I grew up, Wally," he answers sharply. "She was at my parents' funeral."

"Oh," I say. Then steering the topic away from his parents, I add, "So you know where she is, right? We can find her now! Let's go get her!"

Rob begins a couple of sentences before deciding on, "I-Wally. We have to play this one slow. You got SHOT the last time we faced her."

"Yeah but we'll be careful," I argue.

He makes a derisive snort before mocking, "Careful like when you got arrested?"

"Okay man," I mumble. I was hoping he wouldn't bring that up. "That was once."

"Regardless!" Why's Rob suddenly so pissed about that? I thought we were over it.

I bite my tongue and counter, "But we have to do something!"

"No, you don't!" He rises and I can't believe how irrational he's being.

"You're being irrational!"

Rob gives me a sarcastic laugh, "Oh, _I'm_ irrational. You're a reckless, self-indulgent, loose cannon, and you are _not_ just tossing yourself into the line of fire again!"

"While _you_ handle it? Oh yeah, that works so well. You're never doing anything. You lie around and watch Netflix when you could be saving people."

"When I'm not saving _your_ butt, yeah, Wally, I watch Netflix."

"Well...well… At least I get things done. And thanks to you not acting fast enough, your scary woman has my secret identity and I need to do something about it!" I stomp my foot in frustration.

"Fine," Rob bites.

"Fine," I bite back. "...What was her name again?"

"I'm done with you," Rob announces, static replacing his voice.

* * *

 _Hey Readers!  
It's Anna again. Unfortunately, this is where Maggie and I stopped writing. The next chapter will describe what our future plans were for this fan fiction if we were to finish it. The next chapter will have Emily's "editoral"/crack chapters._


	17. Conclusion

Hey Readers!  
It's Anna again. Here's all of Maggie and my ideas for future chapters, so you can get an idea of where we wanted to go. Hopefully this is satisfactory for not actually finishing the story. ;) hehe, sorry. _  
_

Since our notes are mostly incoherent and were written as a hodge podge of ideas where I'd copy and paste in ideas from our IM conversations, I'll provide some insight.

We wanted a sparring chapter, but alas.

Eventually, we wanted a chapter taking place after the first season, with Wally trying to move on with his life, going to college, getting a house with Artemis and stuff and he notices that he's actually gained a little weight due to not running much anymore. Not a lot because the metabolism thing, but because he's gone from intense running and exercising to basically nothing. He also notices he can't eat as much as he used to. And he realizes how weird it is that he has to adjust. In contrast to Rob, who probably actually lost a little weight because he's probably working harder than ever now that he's team leader.

Anna: Dick's weird circus stories. I must hear them.  
Maggie: Oh. They are brilliant and epic in their scope and will be passed down through the Grayson line for generations. (Maybe this could be an antithesis chapter to Chapter 4, where Wally can actually ask about Dick's past and Dick's okay with it?)

Emily/bluishbeetle/our dear editor's headcanon that we never got to write about -.- :  
sometimes when wally's running he whispers "nyoom" under his breath  
he doesn't think flash can hear him  
he does  
kid flash:* quiet nyoooom sound*  
flash: what was that?  
kid flash: nOTHING I DIDNT SAY ANYTHING

I thought it'd be a cool idea to include something where the Flash is studying KF's accident when he got his powers and what exactly happened, therefore hypothesizing that KF's powers are temporary, therefore why he can't run as fast.

Anna: I'd like to try something with the episode 'Failsafe' because not only do both KF and Rob die, they die together. Plus, KF is weirdly quiet during the entire episode, it'd be fun to imagine what he's thinking [probs Artemis and other very depressing things]. We also seem him doing the ESFP thing where there's not enough possibilities for him to stay optimistic, so he tries to make an excuse to make him feel better. "There's traces of Zeta beam radiation! THey're not death rays, they're teleporters! Artemis is alive!" And Rob has to step up as leader. I love the moment in the episode where Miss Martian and Martian Manhunter leave and KF just sort of nods to Rob, like "So, this is it." and then they make one last attack on the doors before being blown up. Then there's the bit in the next episode where they have that counseling session with Black Canary. Wally denies feeling anything. "Wally, you're in denial" "I'm okay with that." Rob pours out all his concerns about him in leadership.  
Maggie: I wonder if that could be sort of a linchpin of their friendship? Like with each other they're totally okay with their faults, like Wally is totally okay that he's in denial about stuff and Rob is totally okay with not being a leader and they just sort of _are?_ IDK. Fuzzy thoughts. xD I was focusing more on the end of what you said, but yes, would totally love a failsafe chapter

Anna: I don't know if we want to end it this way, but we could use the ending episode with Wally dying and then Dick tries to carry on. [The Wally POV would be him making his sacrifice and then the Dick POV would start from that moment on…] Gosh, that'd probably be the most depressing thing ever.  
Maggie: YES LET'S CRUSH THE HEARTS OF OUR READERS YEEEEEEEEEEEES. *steeples author fingers evilly* XD I love it.  
Anna: :) sounds good!

 **Chapter _**

 **Wally West**

[INSERT PLOT HERE]

And everything goes white

 **Chapter _.5**

 **Dick Grayson**

No.

No.

No.

"No you idiot you can't die."

Anna: It'd also be cool to do something with 'Coldhearted' as well. It really defines Wally a ton. However that means there's less new stuff for me to say, so maybe something happens before or after that episode. My favorite parts: when Wally knows he's getting a surprise party, but he plays along anyway, when KF fights Vandal Savage, but ends up having to leave him in order to "save the girl", when he gets to the hospital and he thinks he's too late (Ik, I'm terrible for having that listed as a favorite part, it's more evidence of that ESFP moment where he's plagued with negativities because there's no positive possibilities), at the end where Rob's like, "MAJor Kudos." and Wally's all like, "What can I say? I'm the man." But in his head, he's like I learned so much from this mission about what's important. Maybe using a different event right after this so Wally can reflect a bit on this. :)  
Maggie: I'll have to rewatch this episode-but isn't that the one where Rob is off with Batman while Wally's running around? It would definitely be fun to do.  
Anna: Yeah, it's the team and the JL team up to take down the ice fortresses. And wally's all sad because he misses it. And Rob's torn between being really excited for himself and kind of sad for Wally.  
I've referenced this episode for so many things regarding Wally because he does practically narrate the whole thing, so it's good for getting his voice down.  
Just a bit that touches on the events in 'Independence Day' and 'Fireworks' and the formation of the team. :) It's kind of important for both KF and Rob.  
We could do aftermath scenes, like scenes that pick up after scenes in the show end? Just so it's not all a repeat.

Anna: I've never really liked Artemis but, there's something to say to the fact that he's never flirted with her. It's up to you, this is supposed to be mostly KF and Rob anyway.  
Maggie: XD I never did either, for whatever reason. Maybe it's the sort of thing where Wally's like "I think this girl likes me" and Rob's just like "PSH dude no." "No really." "Wait, really?" "Yeah." "...Well. She's kind of hot?"  
Anna: I thought she was really a jerk when she first came on screen! She could just be mentioned in something. Agreed.

Echoing the episode 'Performance':  
Dick Grayson: I left you behind because you know my back story. I didn't want my best pal questioning my objectivity.  
Wally West: Dude, that's what a best pal's for.

Maggie:This could be a nice antithesis for the Coldhearted chapter. ^^ YES! They're kind of close in the timeline as well.  
That could actually be really funny if we flip back and forth from Dick's internal/mental crises to Wally just baking cookies, eating chips-and back to Dick fighting crime!-and Wally watching American Idol on the couch...  
Anna: For this ^ I think there should be a lot less of Wally POV than Dick unless Wally gets into something more interesting, but it could be nice. :) Still funny.

Can we pleeeeeease do something where Rob's cape gets caught on something and Kf's like "HAH! WHO HAS THE SUPERIOR COSTUME NOW?!"

"Run, Wallace, run!" [Run, Forrest, run!] ← reference to 'Forrest Gump'? Beautiful XD It'd have to be when he and Dick are alone though.

We totally need them to go on this incognito mission and KF would be all excited because he gets to act. they need to go on an incognito mission and Rob introduces himself as Clive and Kf's like "Did you JUST…?"

just every time Wally sees Bruce it's like "excellent disguise." "How do you get from Gotham to Central City every day?" "Can I get an A because I'm your kid's best friend?" He doesn't quite understand, but Robin will embarrassedly explain to him once Wally is gone. And then Bruce will take great delight in playing along. And Rob's stuck in the middle like "I THOUGHT YOU WERE MATURE."

WOOD CHUCKKKKKK He should call him Woodchuck later. or just chuck for short

CHAPTER 8:  
Miss Elle comes back and tries to kill them. XD Miss Elle's like, "I know I recognized you! Hello, Dick!" KF- "You know her?" R- "No…maybe?"

Input from Emily/bluishbeetle/our dear editor:

if someone figured out that bruce wayne is batman

they'd probs keep an eye on where bruce wayne goes

including when he went to wally's house to pick him up

so if we assume that the crazy gun chick was by bruce wayne's place because she knew bruce wayne is batman,

she not only knows wally's name

but also his address

that's only if she bothered following him, though

she could've just known where his seaside mansion is and waited there

but yeah, it would be cool

you're welcome

* takes a bow * 

-an original villain idea: a scrawny chick who likes guns. Psychopathic, gets pleasure from other people's pain. Not driven by money, but the desire to kill.

"You know, when I was little, my daddy told me that I couldn't shoot his guns because i'm a girl. Ha! So i shot him and now I shoot his guns whenever I want!"

To KF-"Fastest kid alive? Meet fastest gun alive! Or dead."

To KF- "faster than a bullet? We'll seee." (It's the flash who can run faster than a bullet. WE CAN MAKE THIS CHAPTER WITH THE FLASH IN IT! or not.)

"I gotta new gun! Wanna see?"

"Machine gun or bazooka?"

To Robin-"I usually don't shoot songbirds, but you're just annoying."

The cool part is: the average bullet travels at 1,700 mph. KF can travel at 770 mph. He's not fast enough. no, I don't want KF to get shot, but…. It's easier to dodge if it's at a distance. And there are some guns that can shoot bullets more than four times faster than the speed of sound.

What if she's performer from Haly's Circus, too? I mean, she was probably fired when she went crazy.

Miss L (like missile) - that's my fave ← also my favorite ^^ That works better phonetically. Plus then we can do the whole R- *FACEPALM* KF- What? R- IT's a PUN. woo~

Or **Miss Elle** ← actually this is my fave XD Puns. sounds good.

Real name: Annie Elle

If we want to make this more than just some crazy chick, she could've been hired by someone.

Or since she also likes machine guns and rocket launchers, she could wear a suit or something. Would it be interesting to have her look be really tomboyish, like crossdresser even? Short hair, men's suit? Maybe even a fedora. Mafia like? 

**The Argument:  
** R- *right after finding out that Miss Elle is from Haly's Circus* *on the phone* "Hey Wally."  
W- "What's up, man?"  
R- "You know the woman on the boat?"  
W- "Psycho chick? Yeah. What about her?"  
R- "Her name came back up on Bruce's database. Annie Elle or Miss Elle."  
W- *snort* "It's a pun? Like missile?"  
R- "Yeah, Wally, it's a play-on-words. She used to be a sharpshooter at Haly's Circus."  
W- "Where?"  
R- "The circus where I grew up, Wally. She was at my parents' funeral."  
W- "Oh. So you know where she is, right? We can find her now! Let's go get her!"  
R- *splutters* *genuinely wanted to vent to someone so is unhappy Wally's steering the conversation away* "I-Wally. We have to play this one slow. You got SHOT the last time we faced her."  
W- "Yeah but we'll be CAREful."  
R- *derisive snort* "Careful like last week? [insert time frame edit here] You got arrested."  
W- "Okay man, that was once."  
R- "Regardless!"  
W- "But we have to do something!"  
R- "No you don't!"  
W- "You're such a killjoy!"  
R- "Oh I'M the killjoy? You're a reckless, self-indulgent, loose cannon, and you are NOT just tossing yourself into the line of fire again!"  
W- "While YOu handle it? Oh yeah, that works so well. You never do ANYTHING. You lie around and watch NETFLIX."  
R- "When I'm not saving your butt, yeah, Wally, I watch Netflix. But last I checked that wasn't any of your business."  
W- "Well...well…! TECHNICALLY your scary woman has MY secret identity, so...so it's none of your business either!" *insert childish foot stamp here*  
R- "FINE."  
W- "FINE. ….What was her name again?"  
R- "YOU ARE INSUFFERABLE." *hangs up*

For this argument, it's important that they don't just intuitively know what the other meant. To be honest, I think Wally's completely clueless as to why Rob's upset, I mean, how was he supposed to know that Rob wanted to vent? So from Wally's perspective, all he sees is that Rob knows more about Miss Elle and doesn't want to go after her, which makes no sense to him. All Rob sees is that Wally's jumping ahead again and skips over the important bits that he wants to discuss. so, ideas? Wouldn't that just all come out in the apology?

yep :)

So then ….

Ry- "Hey, this is Speedy, Green Arrow can't come to the phone right now…"  
R- "Hey Roy, I need a favor."  
Ry- "What's up?"  
R- "I need your marksmanship skills for a target mark. Highly covert."  
Ry- "Yeah, whatever. Just let me know when I'll let you know if I'm free."  
R- "Thanks. I'll be in touch."  
Ry- "Sure man."

-fifteen minutes later-  
Ry- "Hi this is Speedy, Green Arrow can't-"  
W- "Heeey Roy~"  
Ry- =_= *you cut off my script* "Hey."  
W- "Whatcha doing this weekend?"  
Ry- "Uhm."  
W- "Because I was kind of hoping you could help me out with a thing...You know...in a Robin Hood sort of way."  
Ry- "...You know, Robin just called me like ten minutes ago, is this the same thing?"  
W- "Whaaaat, noooooooo, totally not the same thing nope two totally different things. But can you help?"  
Ry- "I don't even know what's going on."  
W- "I just need you to help me do a thing! Please? It's for a friend!"  
Ry- "...I think you and Robin need to sort this out."  
W- "But...but…"  
Ry- "Sort it out!"  
W- "But this is such a cool thing and justice and I really need your help!"  
Ry- "Just call Robin back. You're a big boy. Don't drag me into this."  
W- "This has nothing to do with him!"  
Ry- "Uh huh. Call me back when you've figured it out."

And then somewhere in there once the three of them are all teamed up I really want Roy to just lean over while Rob and Wally are struggling with apologies and just be like, "Ladies, make up already."

Maybe Rob just shoots him a text like "Hey, we're going after Elle at 9:00 tomorrow if you want to come show up."

So Wally pulls up to the place where it's happening (SETTING) and Rob and Roy are already there (on a rooftop somewhere maybe) and Rob's like "So we know she's in this building so Roy's going to disarm her and then we're going to take her down." And Wally says something like "Yeah...Hey man I'm sorry for what I said earlier." and Rob just kind of nods and is like "...Yeah. Me too." W- "Let's get her?" R- *nods* "Let's get her." And Roy in the background just like "ladies please. Can we tone down on the bonding?"

Wally "Soooo… Do you need to *cringe* talk about it?" Rob just glaring at him like "no." and then realizing that was harsh and adding a "but thank you."

Wally and Rob get in an argument after Rob tries to share his concerns over Miss Elle's connection to Haly's Circus. Wally's trying to help by suggesting they DO something to fix the problem, when all Rob wants is to talk because he's feeling things. Wally doesn't really understand that. Roy's just like, guys, just solve your own problems.


	18. The Extra Bonus Super-Awesome Chapters

Hello Readers! It's Anna again. Here are the crack chapters written by our editor, the fantastic bluishbeetle. (check her out at her tumblr: bluishbeetle dot tumblr dot com). Our dear editor wrote these while waiting for a chapter that would never come.

* * *

 **INTERMISSION**

Rob scanned the shelves in front of him, analyzing each bag of snacks. Wally couldn't help but giggle. Rob had the same calculating look on his face as he did when they went on recon missions in dangerous territory.

"Dude, glaring at the prices won't make them any lower."

Rob rolled his eyes and walked further down the aisle. "You need to take this a little more seriously. We don't have much food money left for this month."

"Lighten up, Scrooge. We can always beg Bats for money. Worst case scenario, this place has free samples every Tuesday and Friday at noon."

"Yeah, and how many days do you think it'll take before you get banned from the store?" Rob tossed an icy side-eye Wally's direction and walked further down the aisle. "Besides, the whole point of living on our own is living _on our own_. I'm not going to ask Bruce for money. He's helped us enough already."

"Yeah, alright, I get it." Wally sulked toward the other end of the aisle. "I'll go grab some candy bars," he grumbled. "The cheap ones this time. Even though they taste like cardboard and sadness."

Rob raised his voice a little so Wally could hear him. "Do you want any chips?"

"I'm always a slut for Doritos!" Wally yelled back at full volume.

An older couple peeked around the shelves and Rob turned away from them, pausing to grab a bag of Doritos before speedwalking after his stupid roommate.

"Damn it, Wally."

* * *

 **Intermission 2**

Wally adjusted the camera, then made a cheesy grin and held up a pillow.

"He's been snoring for hours," he whispered, pointing to Rob who was sprawled face-down on his bed like a ragdoll. "And I can't get to sleep. So what I'm gonna do is, I'm gonna hit him with this pillow, ok?"

He crept toward Rob, raised the pillow over his head, and brought it down on Rob's back with a loud crack.

Rob yelped and leaped onto the ground with the poise and grace of a drunk gazelle. "Get down, Wally! Get down! I've been shot!"

Wally stepped back, laughing. Rob sat up, half-panicked and half-asleep. He put a hand on his back with a dazed look.

"Dude, you've been shot before!" Wally said in between fits of giggles. "We both know it doesn't feel like a pillow."

Rob stared at the pillow in Wally's hands, understanding and embarrassment creeping across his face. He crawled back onto his bed and buried himself under the covers.

"Damn it, Wally."

* * *

 **Intermission 3**

Rob woke to the sound of frantic knocking on his apartment door. He rolled out of bed and peeped through the peephole to see none other than his stupid roommate.

"Open the door!" Wally shouted, his usually spiky hair slick from the rain. "My hands are full!"

Rob considered leaving Wally out there for a few hours as revenge for the prank he pulled last night, but his tone sounded pretty serious. Rob rolled his eyes and opened the door. Wally stumbled in, his dripping wet coat bulging suspiciously at the waist, and his arms wrapped around himself to support the bulge.

"What's going on?"

Wally lay down on the floor and unzipped his coat to reveal a squirming pile of… is that hair?

"I found them in a box on the side of the road," Wally said, gently stroking the mass of fur. "Can we keep them?"

Rob knelt down to see that the pile of fur was actually a pile of tiny kittens.

"Oh. Um. I'll go grab some towels. Then we can take them to the Cat Rescue a few blocks away."

"But Rob, they like me!" Wally made his signature pouty face. "And they're so little and cute! I love kittens! Everybody loves kittens!"

Rob sighed. "Wally, I'm allergic to cats. Remember?"

Wally's pout slid off his face and was replaced by the saddest look Rob had seen since that time Wally visited him in the hospital after he got shot on a solo mission. "Oh."

Rob looked at the kittens again. "Fine, but you have to clean their litterbox."

"Really? Woohoo!" Wally shouted, startling the kittens on his stomach. "Oops. Sorry."

"Careful, idiot." Rob picked up one of the scared kittens and held its tiny wet body close to his. It snuggled into his lap and started licking his arm hair with its tiny tongue. Rob felt a surge of love toward the tiny, helpless orphan in his arms, and his nose began to itch.

"Damn it, Wally."

* * *

 **Intermission 4**

Wally was furious.

"I still can't believe you gave all those kittens away, Rob."

"I told you, Wally, we just don't have time to take care of them. We can't work and go to college and fight crime AND take care of cats."

Wally sighed angrily. "I know that, but you could've kept one. I never even got to say goodbye."

Rob looked at his shoes."What do you want me to do, say I'm sorry for doing what's best for everyone?"

Wally glared at him. "I'm just saying you could've waited until I got home before getting rid of my small fuzzy children I rescued from being hit by a car. Oh wait, you must've been worried I was going to try and stop you."

"It's not like that, Wally." Rob glared back. "I can't function when I'm sneezing all the time. I'm sorry, but I just can't live in an apartment with cats."

Wally glared at the floor. "I understand. I just wish you would've told me."

Rob stepped toward Wally. "I'm sorry, I should've let you know. But you can go visit your small fuzzy children whenever you want. Their new mom is in the next building over."

Wally perked up. "Really? Whenever I want?"

"Yeah, she's really nice."

Wally sighed again, this time in relief. "Okay, I guess I forgive you."

* * *

 **Intermission 5**

Wally leaned in close, wrapping his arms even tighter around Rob. "Kiss me, you fool," he said dramatically.

Rob giggled and gave his boyfriend a smooch. "You're such a dork."

Suddenly, Batman burst through the door. His cape fluttered majestically in front of the startled teens. "Pardon me, lovebirds, but I have an important announcement to make. Superman and I are getting married."

Rob's jaw dropped to the floor. "Y-you're gay too?"

"This is a fanfiction, Dick. Everyone is gay."

Wally nodded. "You didn't know, Rob? Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn are getting married too."

"B-but isn't Harley with The Joker?"

"Nah, they broke up," Batman said. "The Joker is now in a polyamorous relationship with Bane and Mr. Freeze."

"Gross." Rob wrinkled his nose. He didn't even want to imagine how that worked.

"Don't judge, Robin," Batman said sternly.

"Yeah Rob," Wally added. "Love is love, whether it's between a man and a woman, a bat and an alien, or a clown, a luchador and a sentient ice cube."

* * *

 **Intermission 6:**

Rob couldn't believe it.

He'd triple-checked his calculations. His odds of winning the bet were five to one. But he hadn't expected an outcome where neither of them won.

"You almost done, Rob? It's time."

He turned to see an uncharacteristically shy Wally peeking around the doorway. The strap of his coconut bra was slowly sliding down his shoulder.

"Almost. Just trying to figure out how the hell this thing works." Rob held up his own tangled coconut bra.

"Here, let me help," Wally said, quickly untangling the twine straps. "Your skirt looks great, by the way."

Rob looked down at the grass skirt that only partially covered his bike shorts.

"Thanks." His tone was as flat as his pride. "You've, uh, got a little nip slip goin' on."

"Oh no!" Wally covered his exposed nipple with theatrical flair, then pulled his bra back up.

Rob finished tying his bra and turned toward the mirror. Heat crawled up his face as his stomach sunk to the floor. "I regret this so much."

"Hey, this was all your idea in the first place."

 _Yeah, but I wasn't supposed to lose_ , Robin thought as he picked two feather boas off the floor. He tossed one at Wally and threw the other one around his neck.

Artemis' voice floated over from the next room, followed by a happy little Hawaiian tune. "Hurry up, boys! It's showtime!"

The two boys shared a terrified glance before slinking out to where their closest friends and respected team members were waiting for them to embarrass themselves.

Staring at the floor, they did a halfhearted shimmy, followed by a twirl. The people they used to call friends laughed and cheered. Wally's strap fell down again. He didn't bother pulling it up.

"This is all your fault," Wally whispered as he did another shimmy.

"No, it's your fault," Rob whispered back.

"Screw you." Wally zipped behind Rob and pulled down his grass skirt.

"Hey!" Rob ripped off Wally's bra.

The crowd cheered as Wally tackled his closest friend to the ground. They rolled across the floor like the tangled pile of limbs and anger they were.

"Hot!" Artemis yelled.

The End.


End file.
